


Stress-Baking

by jjmash



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Everyone Is Alive, Future Fic, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Recipes, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:15:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 21,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27815920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jjmash/pseuds/jjmash
Summary: ON HIATUS.Stiles stress-bakes when he returns home to Beacon Hills the summer after his senior year of college. Derek notices.or"Holy shit, Stiles is a cookie dealer!"
Relationships: Allison Argent/Scott McCall, Derek Hale & Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Vernon Boyd/Erica Reyes
Comments: 28
Kudos: 215





	1. Coming Home

**Author's Note:**

> This is a horrible mishmash of canon and non-canon details because I stopped watching Teen Wolf sometime around 2014. Erica and Boyd are alive; Derek is the alpha; Scott, Allison, Stiles, and Lydia are part of the Hale pack; and the Sheriff's name is John because I can't refer to him any other way.
> 
> CW: references to suicide and past OC death, description of panic attacks and PTSD-like symptoms throughout.

It started during finals week his freshman year. Stiles and his roommate Mark were steadily marathoning every season of the Great British Bake Off after Mark’s sort-of girlfriend at the time had insisted that they watch it. They had become unexpectedly and intensely invested in the show, and had gone so far as to create a bracket (which they proudly hung on the wall in their kitchen) for the current season. So when Stiles was coming off a three-day Redbull- and Adderall-fueled cram session and could still feel every single one of his nerve endings tingling with unspent energy, it seemed natural to haul his ass down to the 7/11 for flour and cocoa powder and then spend three hours trying to perfect a brownie recipe he found on Pinterest.

Stiles found baking oddly calming. It gave him something to focus his brain on but didn’t require too much effort as long as he followed the recipe somewhat carefully, and his floormates generally appreciated the things that he stress-baked for them during finals week. They didn’t so much appreciate the time that Stiles accidentally set off the fire alarm at midnight when he tried making macarons, but French pastries were finicky. By the time Stiles reached the end of his senior year he was proficient enough at the basics that he sometimes picked up extra cash by baking cookies and brownies for whoever wanted them (and if sometimes they were _special_ cookies and brownies, well…just don’t tell his dad). 

After graduation Stiles had a three month break before he was due in San Fransisco to start his first “real person” job as a computer programmer at a healthcare tech company. He’d considered spending the time traveling or just moving into his apartment early to get settled, but his dad had asked (insisted) that he come home to Beacon Hills instead. So at 22 years old Stiles found himself moving back into the little house he’d grown up in but that no longer really felt like _his_ exactly, along with several boxes filled with everything he’d collected over the past four years of his life.

His dad met him at the door with a standard-issue Stilinski bone-crushing hug.

“Good to have you home, kid,” he said gruffly when he’d finally released Stiles from his grip.

“Good to be here, Dad,” Stiles replied, grinning. “What’s for dinner?”

Stiles was more than a little disappointed at the state of the kitchen–it was obvious the sheriff had been subsisting on takeout despite his doctor’s advice–and immediately put grocery shopping on his to-do list. In the meantime he and his dad shared a relatively quiet dinner of spaghetti and frozen meatballs before the sheriff turned in for an early night and Stiles tried to work up the energy to unpack. He only got through two boxes before he collapsed onto his half-made bed, wincing at the loud groan that the springs made.

Stiles stared up at his bedroom ceiling for several hours, contemplating the weirdness of being home in a place that wasn’t really home anymore. It wasn’t like he hadn’t been back since leaving for college; he’d come home for winter breaks and the occasional monster-fighting weekend adventure with the pack, although those were considerably fewer and farther between than they had been in high school. But Stiles hadn’t been back in nearly a year. He hadn’t meant to avoid Beacon Hills entirely, but he’d wanted to avoid the stillness of having nothing to do. Without his classes and his student org meetings and his internship and the daily chore of having to feed himself, Stiles was worried he would be left alone with his thoughts. And they weren’t particularly nice thoughts, lately.

After Mark’s memorial service Stiles had been able to _tamp that shit down_ and avoid feeling much of anything beyond the standard exhaustion and stress of being in college. His friends at school had been similarly eager to forget what happened and simply ignore the gaping hole in their lives as they navigated around the space where Mark had once been. It was easier that way for all of them, Stiles figured, because they still had senior year and capstone projects and future jobs to think about. But now it was all well and truly over, and Stiles was left with 12 weeks and nothing in particular to occupy his time. It was daunting and a little bit frightening and it made Stiles want to crawl out of his own skin, so after a solid three hours spent lying awake in his childhood bedroom, Stiles took to the kitchen.

His dad didn’t have much by way of baking supplies, but Stiles had brought the basics with him anyway. Standing in the old familiar kitchen, Stiles had a sudden memory of his mother’s chocolate chip cookies–the perfect chocolate chip cookies that melted in your mouth and that Claudia had always claimed could cure any ailment _(except for hers)._ Stiles was pretty sure the recipe for them was tucked away in one of her old cookbooks in the garage, so he set off on a midnight quest to find it. 

Sheriff Stilinski appeared in the kitchen several hours later, rubbing his eyes blearily at the early morning light pouring in through the open windows, to find his son wearing one of Claudia’s old aprons and surrounded by what seemed like thousands of chocolate chip cookies. John thought about saying something, thought better of it, and silently went to make his morning cup of coffee. Stiles presented him with a tupperware full of cookies as he left for the station later that morning, his smile just a touch manic.

“Here, bring these to the station with you. Don't eat them all yourself! I’m going to call Linda later to make sure you’ve given them all away,” he threatened.

The sheriff sighed and whined a little bit, but he was grinning the entire time.

Stiles brought the rest of the cookies to Scott after he’d showered and unpacked another couple of boxes.

“Stiles!” Stiles was nearly tackled to the ground as his best friend bounded up to him and wrapped him in a quick, tight hug.

“Hey,” he responded, smiling easily, “want to let up on the very fragile human here?”

“Sorry,” Scott replied, looking very much not sorry. “I just haven’t seen you in so long. Where’ve you been, dude?”

Stiles waved his hand in the air abstractly. “Just working on finishing stuff up at school, you know. It’s not like I haven’t called, and texted, and emailed…”

“It’s not the same. We miss you,” Scott pouted.

Stiles sighed. “Well I’m back now so you can all have at me for the next three months. Where is everyone anyway?”

“Everyone's back for the summer except Lydia, but she comes home most weekends. And Derek is always here anyway. They all want to see you, Isaac asked if you wanted to come over for movie night tonight.”

“Yeah sure, the old Hale–I mean, Derek’s house?”

Derek had used some of his hefty trust fund to renovate the Hale house so that it was actually fit for human–or at least werewolf–habitation, and he and the pack had moved in officially when Derek had gotten a job as an RN at the hospital with Scott’s mom. Apparently Derek was actually quite good at his job, something that Stiles personally would have to see to believe. Stoic, intimidating Derek working as a nurse? Yeah, no.

Scott continued to fill Stiles in on the details of everything he’d missed in the past year as the two of them drove around town, sounding particularly proud of the improvements that had been made at the vet’s office. Stiles listened to Scott ramble and took a second to appreciate that everything had worked out in the end–or was in the process of working out in the end–and that they’d all made it out of high school alive. Sometimes Stiles was still shocked that they’d all managed to have semi-normal lives after everything that had happened, even Derek.

“Stiles? You totally just missed the opening for a horrible pun.” Stiles was lifted out of his silent contemplation at the sound of his name and he did his best to smile at Scott, hoping the werewolf couldn’t sense the melancholy that he suddenly felt. 

“Yeah I’m good, just tired. I didn’t sleep at all last night–cookies to bake and all that.”

Scott seemed satisfied with the explanation and continued his monologue while Stiles turned to stare back out the window.

Stiles felt a nagging sense of dread as he pulled up in front of the old Hale house, even though it looked nothing like the burnt out shell of a place that he’d first seen in high school. He wasn’t sure if it was his old fear of the place resurfacing or his anxiety at seeing the rest of the pack for the first time in a year. He’d stayed in touch, but he still felt surprisingly nervous at having to hang out with all of them together. Stiles felt like a different person from the last time he’d seen them: older, somehow, and a little run down. The pack knew about Mark, at least kind of. They knew that Stiles had a friend at school who’d died that past October, but they didn’t know how it happened or exactly what he’d been to Stiles. 

Because Mark had been more than a friend, for a while. Somewhere in between their late-night COD games, drunken frat parties, and making fun of Paul Hollywood, Stiles had realized that he felt more for his roommate than friendship. It hadn’t been a particularly shocking revelation–Stiles had unraveled the mystery of his sexuality the summer after high school graduation, once he’d had more than ten seconds between horrifying monster-related crises to think about it–but it had turned into something deeper than Stiles had been prepared for because, miracle of all miracles, Mark had actually _liked him back._ They’d spent nearly a year together in a way that had made Stiles vaguely terrified before they realized that they weren’t actually very compatible as boyfriends. It’d been a long and pothole-filled road back to friendship, but they’d spent the last two years of Mark’s life content in their affectionate but very much platonic relationship.

Now, as Stiles worked up the courage to ring the doorbell of the new-old Hale house, he kind of regretted not having told the pack more about Mark. Or at least having told Scott, which was pretty much the same as telling the whole pack because that boy could not keep a secret to save his life. Thankfully the door swung open before Stiles had any more time to think about it, and Stiles was quickly ushered inside by an enthusiastic Isaac.

“We heard you drive up, come on! Everyone wants to see you.”

Stiles let himself be pulled into the large open living room and kitchen area, taking a quick second to admire the renovated space before he was overwhelmed by the werewolves. Even Lydia gave him a hug before promptly lecturing him about how he was never allowed to be away for that long ever again. The only people who didn’t mob him were Scott, who was sitting on the plush sectional and watching the scene unfold happily, and Derek, who was standing over the stove and didn’t appear to notice that Stiles was there. 

Eventually his friends released him and Stiles sunk gratefully into the spot on the sofa that Scott had saved for him. 

“Hey, sourwolf!” Stiles didn't bother to raise his voice, knowing that Derek could hear him from across the room. “What’s for dinner?”

“Chili,” Derek growled back at him shortly. Stiles smiled to himself, happy that some things never changed.

The chili was actually really fucking good, and it was gone about five minutes after it was done. Dessert was Stiles’ cookies, which Scott had generously brought with him to share with the others.

“Stiles made these?” Erica asked skeptically, “Are we sure they’re edible?”

Stiles reached over Scott to slap her on the back of the head, but she just smirked back at him annoyingly. 

“They’re good!” Scott promised, and Allison nodded her agreement.

Isaac took a bite and looked over at Stiles in surprise. “You really made these? From scratch?”

“Yeah, they’re one of my mom’s old recipes. I’ve been baking stuff for awhile, made some money off of it last year selling to students.”

“Holy shit,” Isaac said, “Stiles is a cookie dealer!”

“These are actually good,” Boyd added, and Lydia chimed in to ask him for the recipe, muttering something about the chemical composition of cookies under her breath. Even Derek sort of grunted his approval.

“Ah yes, just the sort of ringing praise I’ve come to expect from you, Derek,” Stiles smirked. Derek glared back at him and Stiles felt content for the first time in months.

His contentment faded as they started the movie that Erica had chosen _(I won a bet,_ she’d told Stiles smugly). Stiles had always loved Little Miss Sunshine, had always loved that sort of dark comedy in general. But as they watched the opening scene with Steve Carell’s character sitting in a wheelchair, his skin pale and washed out against the hospital gown, his wrists wrapped in thick white bandages, Stiles felt...Stiles felt.

Moving as quickly as he possibly could without arousing suspicion and muttering a quick “bathroom” to Scott, Stiles pushed himself off the sectional and headed down the hallway. He didn’t stop at the bathroom but instead went straight out the back door, being careful to close it quietly behind him in case one of the wolves was listening for it. He made it down the porch steps and was halfway to the woods behind the house when he had to stop. 

Stiles crouched down in the damp grass, gasping for air and clutching at his chest as he willed his lungs to keep working. He knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, that he was having a panic attack–they’d started after his mom died, although it’d been years since he’d had to deal with one. 

Stiles couldn’t stop the violent onslaught of feeling that rushed through him, the memory of a late-night call from the campus police asking him if he was one of Mark Jacobson’s emergency contacts, the detached horror as they explained to him what had happened. Mark had overdosed in his room, alone, with nothing to keep him company but his own goodbye note and the record that kept spinning long after his death. At least Steve Carell’s character had lived.

 _Fuck,_ Stiles thought. _FUCK._ He’d been home for less than 24 hours and he couldn’t keep it together, and there wasn’t even anything supernatural threatening to kill him. Involuntary tears began to stream down his face as he continued to gasp for air, his breaths now coming too fast and shallow. _Was this what dying felt like?_

Suddenly there was a warm, heavy hand on his shoulder, and someone was saying something to him. Stiles struggled to focus on the familiar, gruff voice.

“Stiles! It’s okay, you’re okay. Breathe.” Derek took one of Stiles’ hands in his and pressed it to his own hard chest. “Breathe with me, Stiles. In, out. Good,” he encouraged, counting slowly to ten in time with his breathing. Stiles began to draw slower breaths, his chest seeming to loosen slightly as his surroundings came back into focus around him. He was on the cold ground, Derek crouched around him like he was protecting him from an invisible enemy. Stiles was almost too exhausted to feel embarrassed.

As his breathing finally slowed back to normal, Stiles managed to haul himself up to more of a kneel, one of Derek’s hands still pressed reassuringly into the back of his neck. Derek didn’t say anything as Stiles suddenly lurched forward onto all fours to dry heave–he just started rubbing slow circles into the base of Stiles’ skull with his thumb.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, waiting until Stiles was done retching up nothing to remove his hand, backing away a step to give him some space. Stiles kind of missed the steadying warmth at his side, but he didn’t move to re-close the distance between them.

“Sorry,” he said instead, unable to meet Derek’s piercing blue eyes.

“Don’t be.”

Stiles nodded but kept his gaze on the grass in front of him, sitting back and pulling his knees up to his chest so that he could rest his head on them. 

“Stiles,” Derek said, and it sounded odd to hear the man’s voice tinged with so much concern. Stiles hadn’t known that Derek could sound worried like that. “What’s going on?”

“Just freaking out over nothing, it’s not important. No monsters or anything, don’t worry. I’m just being dumb. Usual dumb human me. I didn’t sleep last night, that’s all. And it’s weird being back, I’m readjusting,” Stiles rambled. He could feel Derek’s skeptical stare boring a hole into the side of his head. 

“Stiles,” he said warningly, and Stiles sighed.

“Are the others listening?”

Derek cocked his head to one side for a moment. “No, they’re just watching the movie.”

Stiles nodded. “It’s just...I didn’t want to come back, because of this. I can’t get out of my head here.”

Derek didn’t respond, obviously waiting for him to say more.

“You know, about M–about my friend, who died?”

Derek nodded but still didn’t say anything. Scott had told him in passing when it happened last fall, but he hadn’t actually spoken to Stiles about it. Their weekly text exchanges were pretty limited to Stiles sending werewolf memes and Derek telling him he wasn’t funny.

“He, um,” Stiles hesitated again. He hadn’t actually said this out loud to anyone yet. “He overdosed. On purpose." He let the words hang heavily between them. Derek just stared at him, his expression as blank as it always was, and Stiles couldn't fight the natural instinct to fill the silence. 

"They called me afterwards, and I had to go and get some of his things for his parents. I offered to because I knew they didn’t want to see the place where he, well. And I didn’t want some random campus cop touching everything, so I went and packed up his room." The words were tumbling out of Stiles faster than he was thinking them and he felt briefly horrified about spilling his guts to _Derek_ of all people, but it was like someone had turned on a faucet that he couldn't get to turn off again.

“He had the ticket stubs from our first date on his desk. He kept them even after we broke up, and it was like he left them for me to find, after. And everything was just _his,_ you know? His clothes were there, and all his books, and his record collection, and the fucking ticket stubs. It was all there, but he was gone. Just fucking–just _gone,_ Derek, and I didn’t see it. I don’t know how I didn’t fucking see it, I can tell when there are werewolves and witches and shit, but I couldn’t see what was going on with him. And now it’s too fucking late and I can’t–”

Stiles took a shuddering breath and felt something snap deep in his chest, sobs coming in sudden, horrid little gasps as he thumped a fist down onto the hard ground. It sent a sharp pain up his arm as he did it again, and again. He hoped he broke something. He hoped it hurt for a long time.

And then strong arms were wrapping around him, pulling him into the surprisingly comfortable warmth that was Derek Hale. 

“It’s not your fault,” he whispered into Stiles’ ear over and over again as he rocked him slowly on the hard ground. Stiles let the words wash over him, though he didn’t really believe them, and he let himself be comforted. It didn’t even feel that weird to be comforted by Derek, who he’d never even hugged unless you counted that one time in the swimming pool, and that had been a life-or-death type situation. Stiles knew that he’d feel embarrassed about it later but for now he was okay with crying while Derek held him, completely soaking the man’s standard black t-shirt with tears and snot and grossness. 

Derek kept his arms tightly around Stiles until his sobbing turned to dry hiccups. 

“They probably heard that, didn’t they?” He asked hoarsely.

Derek was quiet for a moment and Stiles knew he was listening for the rest of the pack. “They know you’re upset, but I don’t think they heard anything you said. They’re worried.”

Stiles managed a weak chuckle. “I’ll never get over the whole ‘smelling feelings’ thing. So weird, dude.”

The corner of Derek’s mouth pulled up slightly. “We’re werewolves, and you think our sense of smell is the weirdest part of us?”

Stiles just sighed and leaned away from Derek, who immediately dropped his arms from where they were still wound around Stiles’ body. Derek cleared his throat uncomfortably. 

“I don’t think you should drive,” he said, and Stiles began to protest before he realized exactly how exhausted he was and decided not to argue. “You can stay here tonight, if you want,” Derek added tentatively.

“I can get a ride with Scott and pick up the Jeep tomorrow.” Stiles suddenly felt like he was too physically close to Derek.

“You can, but you know he’s going to want to ask you questions,” Derek pointed out.

“Shit.” Stiles ran a weary hand through his hair. “If it’s okay I’ll stay here tonight I guess. I can take the couch.”

“We have guest rooms.”

Stiles blinked at him in surprise. Derek Hale, who had lived in a literal abandoned warehouse for most of the time Stiles had known him, talking about guest rooms. How surprisingly domestic.

“Okay,” he finally said, because it seemed like Derek was waiting for a response.

Stiles stood shakily, Derek unconsciously following his body’s movements with his arms like he was getting ready to catch him if he stumbled. Stiles looked down at his grass-stained jeans and his already-bruising hand. He could only guess how his face looked.

“They’re not gonna let me go on this one, huh?”

“They won’t ask questions tonight. But it might not be bad to tell them, at some point.” Stiles looked over at Derek in surprise.

“Derek Hale, advocating for people to talk about their feelings? Have I really only been gone a year?”

“Shut up, Stiles.”

"There’s the Derek I remember." Stiles said it with a cheer that he didn’t feel and Derek didn’t believe. He sighed as they turned back toward the house, feeling as though he was marching to his own doom. 

Derek sort of hovered one of his hands between Stiles’ shoulder blades as they walked into the living room, like he was prepared to push Stiles forward if he tried to make a run for it. The agitated, whispered conversations stopped immediately as the two men entered the room. Stiles very carefully avoided looking at Scott, who was sure to have his concerned puppy dog eyes out in full force, and instead glanced rapidly between everyone else. Their faces were matching masks of worry and confusion.

“What–” Erica broke the silence, but Derek interrupted her with a low warning growl.

“Stiles is staying here tonight,” Derek stated, in a tone that made it clear that there was no further conversation to be had on the topic. “You all should finish the movie.”

Stiles stayed mute, his usually reliable voice failing him in the face of his friends’ crushing concern. Derek moved around Stiles to pick up the remote from one of the end tables and pressed play when no one else seemed inclined to do so. Then he placed a surprisingly gentle hand on Stiles’ shoulder and guided him toward the stairs.

Stiles laid in the unfamiliar bed some time later, having showered and changed into one of Derek’s spare t-shirts and a pair of sweats. As Stiles looked around at the sleek armchair and the dresser that looked like it had come straight from a Pottery Barn catalogue, it was hard for him to believe that he was technically in the Hale house. He almost laughed out loud as he imagined Derek shopping for furniture and ruminating on fabric textures. Whoever had chosen the furniture must have done a decent job though, because Stiles fell asleep almost immediately in the soft bed.

Stiles startled awake in the dark, his heart pounding furiously as he tried to pull his brain out of the nightmare he’d been having. The door to the guest room slamming open violently did nothing to help calm the beating of his heart. Derek stood in his doorway, a dark figure outlined in a halo of light streaming in from the hallway. 

“Stiles?” He sounded almost frantic as his eyes searched for Stiles’ figure in the dark.

“Derek? What the hell, you nearly gave me a heart attack.”

“It sounded like you were already having one,” Derek mumbled, his own worry easing away as he heard Stiles’ relatively calm voice.

“You were listening to my heartbeat?” Stiles was genuinely confused. Was that how Derek had known to follow him outside earlier? How often did Derek listen to him? Or was it just another weird werewolf thing that Derek had no control over?

“I–” Derek started, then seemed briefly at a loss for words. “You’re pack,” he said simply.

“Okaaaay,” Stiles drawled, still confused. Derek turned to leave.

“No!” Stiles was surprised at the force in his own voice, and apparently so was Derek because he stopped in his tracks. Stiles wasn’t even sure what he wanted to say. “Just…” He motioned vaguely at the space on the bed next to him. Derek hesitated, and Stiles briefly considered how humiliating it would be if Derek said no, or just left. But instead Derek moved closer to the bed, and then he was pulling up a corner of the comforter and sliding carefully into the spot next to Stiles. Stiles wiggled over to the other side, giving the large man as much room as possible.

“Thanks,” Stiles breathed, though he wasn’t sure exactly what he was thanking him for. He just knew that he felt better with Derek next to him, and he decided to avoid thinking about that for now. Or possibly forever.

“Do you get nightmares a lot?” Derek’s voice was barely a whisper, but it was so close to Stiles’ ear that it nearly made him jump. He took a moment to compose himself before responding.

“Not a lot, just sometimes.”

“Since October?” Derek very tactfully did not add "After your friend-slash-ex-boyfriend killed himself," for which Stiles was grateful.

“No, since high school.” Stiles was too tired to bother lying. Derek made a weird noise beside him and Stiles looked over, struggling in the dark to read his expression.

“You shouldn’t have been so involved with all that stuff. You were too young, and human.” Coming from Derek Hale, that was basically an apology. Stiles brushed it off easily.

“Can’t exactly go back now, can we? Besides, no one can say I had a boring high school experience. I didn’t mind it so much.”

As he said it, Stiles realized it was the truth. He’d been scared half out of his mind for most of it, but he wouldn’t trade even the worst bits of what he’d had for a normal high school experience. It was funny, to think that all Stiles used to wish for was normalcy. And yet here he was, lying in a bed with Derek Hale and not really minding it at all. Life was weird.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chocolate Chip Cookies (recipe adapted from sallysbakingaddiction.com)
> 
> Ingredients:  
> 3/4 c unsalted butter, room temperature  
> 3/4 c packed light or dark brown sugar  
> 1/4 c granulated sugar  
> 1 large egg, room temperature  
> 2 tsp pure vanilla extract  
> 2 c all-purpose flour  
> 2 tsp cornstarch  
> 1 tsp baking soda  
> 1/2 tsp salt  
> 1 and 1/4 c semi-sweet chocolate chips
> 
> Instructions:  
> In a large bowl beat the butter, brown sugar, and sugar together on medium speed until combined and creamy. Beat in the egg and vanilla.  
> In a separate bowl, combine flour, cornstarch, baking soda and salt. Add into the wet ingredients, then beat on low speed until combined. Mix in the chocolate chips. Cover dough tightly with aluminum foil or plastic wrap and chill for at least 1 hour.  
> Remove cookie dough from the refrigerator and allow to sit at room temperature for 10 minutes. Preheat oven to 350°F. Line 2 baking sheets with parchment paper. Roll balls of dough, about 1.5 tbsp of dough each, into balls.  
> Bake for 10-12 minutes, until barely golden brown around the edges. Cool for 5 minutes on the baking sheet.Transfer cookies to a cooling rack to cool completely.


	2. Rainbow Crocs

When Stiles woke again it was still dark out and he was alone in the guest bedroom, Derek presumably having returned to his own bed at some point during the night. Groaning, Stiles fumbled for his phone to check the time: 5:30. Well, a few hours of sleep was better than no hours of sleep. Given the way Stiles had been sleeping for the past few months, it was actually better than his average.

Stiles stumbled his way to the kitchen in the dark, pausing a few times to take in the parts of the house that he hadn’t noticed the previous night.

Derek had done well, he had to admit. The house was all soft wood and clean lines, not at all the industrial warehouse vibe that Stiles had expected. There was a cozy-looking sunroom at one end of the house, and a long hallway connected it to the living area. Off the hallway was a series of doors, each with a set of initials carved into it. Stiles didn’t see “D.H.” so he assumed Derek probably had his own wing somewhere. The kitchen was spacious and airy, and it didn’t take long for Stiles to brew himself a cup of coffee and find the baking supplies he needed.

Stiles was on his third batch of chocolate muffins when he caught sight of Derek in his peripheral vision. He didn’t look up from his batter as the older man moved around him to start the coffee maker, and Derek didn’t offer a greeting. It wasn’t until Stiles had shoved the muffin tin in the oven that he finally turned to address him–and immediately burst out laughing. 

Derek was dressed in scrubs (all black, of course) and he was wearing honest-to-god rainbow-colored crocs. Derek frowned at Stiles as he continued to shake with laughter, glaring in a way that was definitely meant to be intimidating but was significantly dampened by the fact that he was wearing _rainbow-colored crocs._

Finally, Stiles’ laughter subsided enough for him to speak.

“Nice kicks,” he said, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes.

“The kids like them,” Derek muttered, his cheeks slightly pink.

“No, no, they’re great. You’ve got them in sports mode and everything.”

“Shut up.” Derek paused when the coffee maker dinged, quickly filling up a thermos with the hot caffeine. “Do you always bake like you’re feeding a small army?”

Stiles surveyed his cooling muffins guiltily. “Sometimes. It’s calming, I don’t know. And people like baked goods.”

Erica and Boyd stormed into the kitchen and swarmed the muffins immediately, as if to prove Stiles’ point.

“Muffins! Sweet,” Erica exclaimed, indelicately shoving an entire muffin in her mouth.

Boyd mumbled something that sounded like good morning and went to pour himself a large mug of coffee.

“Stiles,” Erica said around her mouthful of muffin, utterly enraptured, “you should move in with us. I’m serious, you can stay here all the time if you’re going to make stuff like this.”

Stiles pictured for a moment having a door with his initials carved into it and getting to laugh at Derek’s choice of footwear every morning, but he quickly brushed aside that not-entirely-unpleasant fantasy,

“Like I would want to live with all of your wolfy asses," he snorted. "Besides, I’m moving to San Francisco at the end of the summer.”

“San Francisco?” Derek spoke from his spot where he was leaning comfortably against the counter, and Stiles looked over at him in surprise.

“Yeah, Scott didn’t tell you? I got a programming job, I’m just hanging out for a few months.”

“You haven’t exactly kept in touch,” Derek said, his tone borderline accusatory.

Stiles furrowed his brow at him. Derek had never seemed to care before when Stiles came home; he was honestly stunned that Derek had noticed his absence from Beacon Hills at all. And Stiles _had_ kept in touch, he thought to himself petulantly. Okay, so it was mostly through memes and not about anything serious or real, but still. 

“Sorry,” Stiles said quietly, not really understanding what he was apologizing for.

Derek stared at him for a few more seconds before turning away to grab a banana from the bowl on the counter.

Erica and Boyd looked vaguely uncomfortable. “So,” Erica said, her tone suddenly serious. “What was up last night?”

Stiles sighed. He wished he could’ve gotten another cup of coffee in him before the interrogation started. Or at least that he hadn’t forgotten his Adderall at home. 

“Um,” Stiles almost wanted to look to Derek for guidance, but the older man still had his back turned to him. “So, uh, my friend from school who died last year, I don’t think I’d really processed what happened, you know? And I think maybe coming home kind of...brought it all up again for me. Bad timing that it happened during movie night, sorry.”

Stiles was worried that Derek was going to call him out for not telling them the full story, but he stayed quiet. For the first time since he’d met him, Stiles was grateful for Derek’s “silent and brooding” routine. Erica wrapped Stiles in a sudden hug, but Boyd was the first one to speak. “You don’t need to be sorry, Stiles. We get it.”

Stiles nodded his thanks, not trusting his voice not to break. God, he was such a fucking mess. 

Derek cleared his throat. “I’m going to work.” He pointed at Stiles. “Don’t let them eat all the muffins, it’s not good for them.”

“I’ll bring them to Scott’s mom, don’t worry.”

Erica pouted. “Yes _Mom,_ yes _Dad.”_

“Shut up,” Stiles and Derek replied in unison.

It wasn’t until Stiles was already in his car on the way to the hospital that he realized Derek could have taken the muffins there himself.

Mrs. McCall greeted Stiles with a smile and a warm hug. She was pretty much the same as Stiles remembered her, maybe with a few more lines around her eyes, and he felt an overwhelming sense of home as she embraced him.

“Hi Mrs. McCall.”

“Stiles, it’s so good to see you! Scott told me you were planning to stop by today.”

“I brought muffins.” Stiles held up the container he’d brought with him, and Melissa's eyes lit up.

“Those look amazing!” She eyed him suspiciously. “These aren’t apology muffins because you accidentally broke something, are they?”

Stiles rolled his eyes. _“No._ I like to bake sometimes, but I can’t eat it all myself.” She looked at him skeptically. “Okay, so I tried eating everything I baked at first, but then I made myself sick and gained like 20 pounds,” he amended. 

“Alright then, I think you’re about to be the most popular person on this floor,” Mrs. McCall smiled at him.

There was a sharp beeping noise from somewhere behind the nurse’s desk and she started jogging down the hallway. “Sorry, that’s for me. Don’t go anywhere, I want to hear about your new job!” 

Stiles raised a hand to her in a casual wave, still holding the tupperware full of muffins.

“Melissa knows about your job?”

Stiles jumped when he realized that Derek was standing directly behind him, dropping the muffins on the floor in the process. Thankfully the lid stayed firmly on the container as Derek scooped up the tupperware and set it on the nurse’s desk.

“Jesus fucking christ, don’t sneak up on me like that!” Stiles placed a hand over his heart and Derek rolled his eyes at his dramatics. “And yeah, Scott must have told her, or my dad. Why do you even care?”

Derek shrugged and looked like he was about to say something annoying when a tiny red-haired girl in a cartoon character-emblazoned hospital gown came bounding up to him, a Barbie doll clutched tightly in her arms. 

“Nurse Derek!” 

Derek knelt down and smiled _–an actual, genuine smile–_ as he picked her up. The girl squealed delightedly as he swung her around a few times. 

Stiles stared at Derek in mild shock. Was this really the grumpy werewolf who Stiles had been prepared to argue with a moment earlier? Derek’s wide smile had all but banished his usual intimidating persona, leaving behind a teddy bear. A male model-esque teddy bear.

The girl pointed down at Derek’s shoes excitedly. “You’ve got rainbow shoes!” Her cute little smile lit up her entire face and Stiles kind of understood why Derek Hale, who seemed to perpetually exist in leather jackets and dark t-shirts, was willing to wear something so utterly outrageous.

“I love rainbows! My uncle Liam has rainbow clothes too, and he says it’s because he likes boys. He’s married to my uncle Pete now, they had a big party and everything. Are you going to marry a boy too?”

Derek hesitated for a moment, glancing briefly at Stiles. “Maybe one day, yeah.”

Stiles choked a little bit and tried to cover it up with a cough. _Whoa._ Okay, so Derek was...gay? Bi? Definitely into guys, at least. Well that was a revelation. Stiles knew Derek had dated women in the past–Kate Argent, for one. And the guy had definitely had one night stands, but Stiles couldn’t recall his sexuality ever actually being discussed. Although Stiles wasn’t really one to talk considering he’d never formally come out to anyone. By the time Stiles recovered enough to speak, Derek was already being pulled away by the little girl, who was now happily skipping down the hallway.

Scott tracked down Stiles at his house later that night, showing up on the Stilinskis’ doorstep with a large pizza and the saddest eyes Stiles had ever seen.

“Why do you look like you’re about to tell me you killed my cat?”

Scott looked genuinely confused. “You don’t have a cat.”

Stiles just shook his head and waved Scott into the kitchen. They were each three slices in when Scott finally got to the point. He wiped his hands off on a paper towel and looked up at Stiles nervously.

“Don’t look at me like that, dude. Just ask what you’re going to ask, the sooner we get this over with the sooner we can play COD. Do I need a beer for this?”

Stiles didn’t wait for Scott to answer before grabbing two beers from the fridge and plopping one down in front of his friend. Scott fiddled with the metal tab while Stiles took a long pull from his own can.

“Are you okay?”

Stiles ran a hand through his already-messy hair. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

Scott exhaled noisily.

“Stiles, you’re obviously not okay. I mean I know I haven’t always been the most observant person–” Stiles snorted, but Scott continued as if he hadn’t heard the interruption, “–but you didn’t seem okay last night and you were weird in the car yesterday and I can tell you’re not sleeping because you look like shit and you know you can tell me anything so just tell me what’s going on before I freak out about you being possessed or something!” Scott finally ended his run-on sentence and Stiles downed the rest of his beer before answering.

“Well I’m not possessed, but thanks for letting me know I look like shit, that’s a big confidence booster right there.” Stiles knew he was deflecting and Scott knew it too, so the two of them had a sort of stare down before Stiles finally broke. “My friend, the one who died?”

Stiles hated that Mark was apparently now his “friend who died” but he didn’t know if his Beacon Hills friends would remember his name, and Stiles didn’t think he could stand to say his name anyway. Scott nodded encouragingly, silently urging him on.

“He was maybe more than a friend. Not when he died!” Stiles added hurriedly as Scott’s expression turned to one of horror. “We’ve been–we were–just friends, for the past couple of years. But anyway, we used to be _together_. And he was kind of like my best friend at school.”

Stiles looked over at Scott to see if he was offended at Stiles using the title of best friend for someone who wasn’t him, but Scott just stared back at him, obviously waiting for him to say more. Goddamnit, the one time Scott was perceptive enough to just shut the fuck up and listen and now all Stiles wanted was for him to say something that would save him from having to tell the next part of the story.

“He killed himself.” It was the first time Stiles had said it out loud so bluntly, but he felt almost okay about it. He didn’t even flinch at the words, although he couldn’t look at Scott while he said them.

“Oh god, Stiles.” Scott’s voice was a pained whine that was more wolf than human. “Why didn’t you tell me? And the movie last night, oh god…”

Stiles almost couldn’t stand it, the way Scott sounded and the look he was giving him from across the table. Derek hadn’t looked at him like that, with that mixture of pity and sadness like he was afraid Stiles would break if he breathed too forcefully in his direction.

“Stop, Scott. Now you know, and let’s not talk about it ever again, okay?”

“But Stiles, you know it wasn’t your fault, right? You couldn’t have done anything.” Scott was nearly pleading with him, but Stiles shook his head sharply.

“I’m serious Scott, I’ll kick you out of my house if you keep talking about this.”

They both knew that wasn’t true, and it wasn’t like Stiles could physically make Scott do anything he didn’t want to, but Scott must have seen the hard look in his friend’s eyes because he put his hands up in surrender.

“Fine. Just know that you can talk to me anytime, if you want to.”

Stiles nodded once. “COD?”

Scott’s answering smile was almost normal-looking, but not quite.

“Yeah, dude. I bet I can still kick your ass.”

If Stiles hadn’t been plagued by insomnia for the past several months, he would’ve assumed he dreamed the tapping that he heard on his window later that night. Instead, Stiles crossed over to the window and slid it open to reveal Derek, who'd ditched the rainbow crocs from earlier in the day and was now carrying what looked like a first aid kit.

“I don’t know why I’m even surprised,” Stiles said grimly. “At least you knock now.”

Derek harrumphed as he effortlessly hoisted himself in through Stiles’ window and stood for a moment, looking around like he was checking to see if anything had changed since the last time he’d shown up unannounced at Stiles’ bedroom window.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” Stiles asked impatiently when it became clear that Derek wasn't going to volunteer his reasons or showing up unannounced in the middle of the night.

“Your hand,” Derek said, gesturing to Stiles’ bruised knuckles from where he’d punched the hard ground the night before.

“What about my hand?”

Derek frowned. “You need to ice it and wrap it, but I knew you’d be too stupid to do it yourself, so…” he rattled the first aid kit in Stiles’ direction.

“It’s not that bad,” Stiles grumbled, but he sat on the bed when Derek gestured to it as the older man rolled over Stiles’ desk chair and took a seat facing him. Derek’s hands were warm, because all of Derek was warm, because _werewolf,_ and his grip on Stiles’ wrist was firm but gentle as he began wrapping an ace bandage around it.

“You probably sprained it.”

Stiles couldn’t help the laugh that escaped him, and Derek looked at him questioningly. “Hold still,” he warned.

“Sorry. It’s just, we’ve really come full circle. I mean, you snuck into my room–I don’t know why, by the way, it’s not like my dad would care, I’m an adult–with a first aid kit and now you’re assessing my injuries.”

The corner of Derek’s mouth quirked up slightly. “At least you didn't get beat up by an old man this time.”

“No,” Stiles said, a touch bitterly, “I seem to be doing a perfectly good job of beating myself up.”

Derek finished wrapping Stiles’ hand and let go of his wrist but didn’t move to leave.

“You don’t deserve to hurt, you know. It wasn’t your fault.”

“I’m getting really fucking tired of people telling me shit they don’t know anything about,” Stiles snapped angrily.

He didn’t even know why he was angry. He knew, logically, that Derek was right, but he just wanted everyone to _leave him alone._ But Derek didn’t give in the way that Scott had, and Stiles felt his irritation growing.

“You think I don’t know anything about having people you love die?” Derek didn’t say it accusingly, but Stiles deflated immediately. 

“Sorry,” he mumbled to the floor, feeling more than a little ashamed of himself.

“Look, there’s a woman I know, she could help.”

Stiles looked at Derek incredulously. Was he seriously suggesting that Stiles go see a shrink? “I have a psychiatrist, who do you think writes my Adderall prescriptions?”

Derek sighed in exasperation, his patience with Stiles clearly having worn thin.

“She’s not a psychiatrist, she’s a therapist. You just talk to her. She knows,” Derek cleared his throat uncomfortably–it was kind of a tic with him, Stiles was beginning to notice–before continuing. “She knows about us, what we are.”

Stiles brushed over the fact that Derek had said “we” even though Stiles was still human, thankyouverymuch. “You’ve...you’ve talked to her?” He couldn’t imagine Derek sitting on a couch in a beige room somewhere, talking about _feelings_ for a full hour.

Derek shrugged but then nodded. “She’s not bad, alright? Just call her.”

He pulled out a card from his back pocket as he stood, placed it on the corner of Stiles’ desk, and disappeared back out into the night without another word.

Stiles stared at the little white card for a few minutes, then turned and practically sprinted to the kitchen to take refuge in flour and sugar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chocolate muffins (recipe adapted from onceuponachef.com)
> 
> Ingredients:  
> 2 large eggs  
> 1 c low fat buttermilk  
> 2 tsp vanilla extract  
> 1-3/4 c all-purpose flour  
> 2/3 c natural unsweetened cocoa powder  
> 1-1/4 c light brown sugar, packed  
> 1 tsp baking powder  
> 1 tsp baking soda  
> 1/2 tsp salt  
> 1 c semi-sweet or bittersweet chocolate chips  
> 1 stick (1/2 c) unsalted butter, melted and slightly cooled
> 
> Instructions:  
> Position a rack in the center of the oven and preheat to 425°F. Line a standard 12-cup muffin pan with liners.  
> In a large measuring cup or bowl, whisk together the eggs, buttermilk, and vanilla extract.  
> In another large bowl, whisk together the flour, cocoa powder, brown sugar, baking powder, baking soda, and salt. Rub the mixture through your fingers to break up any lumps of brown sugar.  
> To the dry ingredients, add 3/4 cup of the chocolate chips, the buttermilk-egg mixture, and the melted butter. Mix until just combined.  
> Fill the muffin cups to the brim with batter. Distribute the remaining 1/4 cup of chocolate chips evenly over the muffin tops, pressing them lightly into the batter. Place in the oven and bake for 8 minutes, then turn the oven down to 350°F and bake for about 12 minutes more, or until a toothpick inserted in the center of a muffin comes out clean. Transfer to a wire rack and let cool for about 5 minutes before removing the muffins from the pan; cool on a rack.


	3. I Contain Multitudes

It’d been two weeks and the little white card that Derek had left was still sitting on the corner of Stiles’ desk. Stiles also still hadn’t managed to get a single night of good sleep, and he felt like he was slowly going crazy. He’d doze off for a few minutes, or sometimes a couple of hours if he was lucky, only to jerk awake what felt like seconds later. He existed in a weird fugue state, always feeling simultaneously exhausted and full of nervous energy. Having absolutely nothing to do ended up being a good thing, because Stiles didn’t seem to be capable of doing anything other than lying in his bed or baking.

God, the baking. He’d driven 45 minutes each way to the nearest Costco to buy the huge wholesale sacks of flour and sugar, and he was already halfway through them. Baking was the only thing Stiles could do that didn’t make him feel crazier than he already did, but he was quickly running out of people to pawn his baked goods off on. He’d brought it all to the Hale house at first, which had earned him some serious brownie points (literally) with Erica, Boyd, and Isaac, but Derek’s cold stare had grown increasingly disapproving. And that meant that Stiles couldn’t bring his leftovers to the hospital for Mrs. McCall, because Derek was there too. Sometimes Stiles felt like the weight of Derek’s stare was a physical thing, like it was slowly squeezing the air out of his lungs. Stiles would do a lot to avoid that stare.

Even after distributing a few to Scott and Dr. Deaton, Stiles was still left with 36 brownies cut into neat little squares. The only place left to go, other than standing on a street corner and trying to give them away to passersby, was the station.

Stiles didn’t particularly want to go down to the station because he had maybe been avoiding his dad a little bit, or as much as you can avoid someone who you live with. It’s just that Stiles’ dad always seemed to know when he was lying. And he was damn good at getting answers out of Stiles when he wanted them, those couple of years in high school notwithstanding. After melting down in front of Derek and then having to explain why to all of his friends, Stiles just didn’t want to talk about it anymore. He didn’t want to think about why he couldn’t sleep or why he was baking so much that it was becoming a borderline compulsion.

Scott, bless him, hadn’t tried to bring it up again after that night at Stiles' house, although sometimes Stiles caught him with that same sad, pitying look on his face. The pack hadn’t mentioned it, and Derek was just Derek. Stiles was pretty sure Derek was trying to glare him into dealing with his issues, but he’d be damned if he let Derek Hale fear tactics work on him. He’d seen the man in rainbow crocs for fuck’s sake.

Stiles was greeted enthusiastically at the station, most of the officers crowding around him as they tried to get a look at what he’d baked for them this time. Stiles set the brownie tin down on the break room table and let them have it, strongly reminded of dinners at the Hale house as the officers practically inhaled the brownies. Deputy Rick Johnson, who’d known Stiles since before he could walk, sidled up next to him. 

“Hey, kid. Thanks for the brownies,” he said, offering up a big, chocolatey smile of gratitude.

“No problem, Rick. I honestly didn’t know where else to bring them.”

“Yeah, Derek told me you’ve been baking a lot.”

Stiles raised his eyebrows in disbelief. “Derek Hale?”

“Uh huh, he comes in once in a while to talk to your dad. Usually brings some decent coffee with him too, he’s a good guy.”

Stiles needed a moment to recover from the shock of Derek Hale being described as a “good guy.” He knew Derek had met with his dad occasionally back when they still needed to keep the sheriff informed of all the weird supernatural goings-on in Beacon Hills, but he was surprised to learn that the meetings had continued even though there weren’t many “mountain lion attacks” to be worried about anymore.

Stiles was about to press for more details on this apparently alternate universe version of Derek Hale who brought everyone coffee, but his dad effectively ended the conversation when he stuck his head out of his office door.

“Stiles! Get in here,” the sheriff yelled, and Stiles let out an involuntary “fuck” in response. The officers looked at him sympathetically; they’d all been on the receiving end of _that_ voice before, and it had never meant anything good.

“Good luck,” said Rick grimly.

Stiles hovered nervously just inside his dad’s office door, feeling more like a 16 year old who’d been caught sneaking out after curfew than a 22 year old adult who, he was pretty sure, had done nothing wrong. Recently.

“Sit down, Stiles,” the sheriff said impatiently, gesturing to the empty chair across the desk from him.

“Oh shit, are you going to start interrogating me about something? Because I swear to god I haven’t done anything since coming home, and if you found out about something I did in high school I’d like to remind you that the statute of limitations is a thing, and you definitely can’t ground me anymore because I’m technically an adult even though I’m living with you and–”

“Stiles,” John cut his rant short, “I’m not interrogating you, that usually happens in the _interrogation_ room.”

“Oh.”

“Do you want to tell me why you’re avoiding me?”

“I’m not avoiding you!”

The sheriff looked at him skeptically. Fuck his dad’s stupid fucking lie detector skills. Who needed a polygraph when John Stilinski could just stare you into submission?

“Okay, I’m avoiding you a little bit, maybe.”

“You’re avoiding me, you’re obviously not sleeping, and I hear you baking stuff at all hours of the night,” the sheriff ticked each accusation off on his fingers as he listed them. 

Stiles stared down intently at his dad’s well-loved desk, digging his thumbnail into a crevice in the wood. Stiles could remember a time when he was shorter than the massive desk and he’d thought that his dad was the most impressive man in the world when he sat behind it in his uniform.

Stiles hated lying to his dad, truly detested it, and he’d made an effort to tell him the truth ever since he’d found out about the whole werewolf thing. But Stiles couldn’t make himself give voice to the explanation that he knew his dad wanted–not to his _dad,_ who knew him better than anyone else in the world. 

Realizing that his son wasn’t going to say anything anytime soon, the sheriff huffed out a sigh and ran a hand through his hair, a habit that Stiles had picked up from him at a young age.

Suddenly, Stiles was struck by how old his dad looked–he’d always seemed frozen in time to Stiles in that way that all kids see their parents as merely orbiting around them, remaining static even as their children grow into adolescence and adulthood. But now, sitting across from his dad with the old desk between them, Stiles noticed how the laugh lines in his face were permanently etched there, how his eyes seemed to sag a little bit and his hair was going gray at the temples. It kind of made Stiles want to cry, to think that his dad had grown into an old man when he wasn’t looking.

“I’m worried about you.” It was a softer tone than Stiles had ever heard his dad use before in the office, where he was normally yelling about something or other. Stiles was horrified to find that there were actual tears pooling in his eyes. He couldn’t stand making his dad worry, not when they were all they had left.

The sheriff changed tactics when Stiles remained silent. “Derek talked to me about you, you know. I think he’s worried too.”

Stiles sniffed and looked up in surprise, the shock effectively banishing his unshed tears. Everything about Derek seemed to be surprising him lately.

“Derek came to talk to you? About me? What did he say?”

The sheriff, relieved that his son was at least saying _something,_ waved a dismissive hand. “Nothing that I couldn’t see for myself.”

“And he was worried,” Stiles said dubiously. “Why?”

“Well you _are_ friends, you’ve known the guy for going on seven years at this point.”

“Like, barely friends,” Stiles muttered, then fell silent.

After a few moments of silence the sheriff sighed again. “Alright, get out of my office.”

Stiles’ relief was evident as he practically sprinted towards the door.

“And stop avoiding me!” The sheriff shouted after him, and Stiles waved a hand in acknowledgement. “That fucking kid,” John mumbled to himself.

Stiles’ anger grew from a flicker of annoyance to an absolute volcano of rage during his drive home. What right did Derek have to go to his dad? It was none of his fucking business, which Stiles had told him that night he came to his window. By the time he reached his house Stiles was so angry that he immediately set off on a run, his first since he’d gotten home.

It was only when he was already three miles from his house and the sky had grown threateningly dark that Stiles realized he’d left his phone at home. But then the clouds opened up and Stiles realized he didn’t care. He continued running through the heavy rain, his clothes and shoes completely soaking through, and ended up at the front door of the Hale house without really meaning to. It was like his subconscious had pointed him toward the root of his anger and his feet had simply taken him there.

Stiles hesitated on the front porch, shivering slightly in his wet clothes as rivulets of water streamed down from his hair. _Fuck it._ Stiles’ anger won out and he started pounding on the front door. Boyd answered, looking unusually flustered to see a soaking wet Stiles on the doorstep. Stiles pushed past him and into the entryway without a word, not caring that he was getting water all over the hardwood floors.

“Derek! Get your ass down here now!” Stiles put as much authority as he could muster into the words, and hoped desperately that Derek was, in fact, home.

Sure enough, the black-clad man ambled down the stairs and came to a stop a few feet from Stiles, folding his arms in front of his chest. He took in Stiles’ wild appearance without a word or any change in expression, and Boyd fled upstairs to avoid the impending storm. 

“Stiles,” Derek said simply.

“Don’t,” warned Stiles. “Don’t say my name like that, you motherfucker. You crossed a line, going to my dad.”

Derek just stared at him, which only served to infuriate Stiles more.

“No, you don’t get to be the stoic asshole this time!” Stiles shouted at him. “I can’t believe you went to my dad behind my back. Now he’s all worried!”

Derek held his ground. “Your dad was already worried,” he said.

“You didn’t have to tell him anything! It’s none of your business, it’s not anyone’s business! I’m handling it!”

Derek uncrossed his arms. “You’re killing yourself.”

Stiles, who’d been about to start yelling again, stopped short. Something about Derek’s voice, some emotion lingering just beneath the surface that Stiles couldn’t identify, made him pause. Derek ground the heels of his palms into his eyes for a moment, the first sign that anything about the interaction had unsettled him. 

“You’re killing yourself, Stiles, and I’m not going to just watch you do it. You don’t get to do this, I’m not letting you.” His voice was so firm and sure that Stiles couldn’t really think of a response. Derek seemed to take that as permission to start issuing orders. 

“Come on,” he said, already turning towards the stairs, “you’re dripping all over the place.”

Stiles followed behind Derek a little helplessly, his anger dissipated but still feeling vaguely annoyed. And cold, now that he didn’t have the anger to keep him warm. Stiles was shivering by the time they got to Derek’s room. He stood in the doorway while Derek rummaged around in his dresser, trying not to seem too much like he was staring. 

The room was, predictably, mostly black. The walls were bare save for a cluster of photos above the bed. Some of them Stiles recognized as Hale family photos, Derek looking significantly younger and happier surrounded by his siblings and parents, his smile in the photos far more open that Stiles has ever seen it in real life. Stiles was once again struck by the magnitude of the tragedy that Derek had suffered, and he privately thought it was a miracle that the man was even still standing. Stiles had lost his mother and one friend and both times it had felt like his world was ending; he didn’t know how Derek could possibly be a functioning (or at least semi-functioning) person after everything he’d lost. 

Mixed in with the Hale family photos were pictures of the pack: Isaac, Boyd and Erica at their high school graduation, looking blissfully happy; Derek and Scott sitting on the front steps of the half-rebuilt house with beers in hand; a group picture that had been taken sometime during the summer after Stiles’ freshman year.

And then there was a picture of Stiles and Derek that someone must have taken without his knowledge. Stiles was looking just beyond the camera, mid-laugh and gesticulating wildly, and Derek was in profile with just a hint of a smile around the corners of his mouth, looking over at Stiles in begrudging amusement. They looked like friends, in that picture. Like close, happy friends.

Stiles was still staring at the photo when Derek turned back towards him, holding out a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt–the same clothes Stiles had worn when he’d stayed the night after his epic breakdown. Derek followed Stiles’ line of sight to the picture when he didn’t move to take the offered clothes. 

“Lydia gave me that.”

“Oh,” Stiles said dumbly, finally taking the clothes from Derek’s outstretched hands. Derek pushed him toward the bathroom.

“There’s clean towels under the sink.” Stiles just nodded and locked the door behind him.

As he dried off and got dressed Stiles could hear Derek talking to someone on the other side of the door. When he emerged from the bathroom, Derek was wrapping up a phone call. “Okay, we’ll be there in 20 minutes.”

"Where are we going?" Stiles asked as Derek hung up.

Derek just grunted in response. “Car,” he ordered, and Stiles couldn’t find it in him to argue.

They drove in relative silence, Stiles having no idea where they were going until they were already at their destination. 

“Really? You brought me to your therapist?” Stiles crossed his arms over his chest, fully aware that he probably looked like a whining child.

“It’s this or I tell your dad everything,” Derek said simply.

“You’re such an asshole,” Stiles complained, but he was already unbuckling his seatbelt. 

Forty five minutes later, Stiles returned to the beige lobby to find Derek waiting for him, flipping idly through a magazine with a picture of a car on the front. Stiles was almost surprised to find him waiting, even though he obviously knew that Derek was the one who’d driven him there in the first place. Stiles scheduled his next appointment with the receptionist before they left.

Derek’s therapist, who was apparently also now Stiles’ therapist, was a kind-looking, middle-aged blonde woman named Sandy. Stiles hadn’t told her everything–hadn’t told her much of anything, really–but he somehow felt a little better. Emotionally empty, but better. She hadn’t done anything but ask questions in her calm voice and assure him that she wasn’t there to judge or tell him what to do, but Stiles felt more grounded than he had before going in.

Stiles was grateful that Derek didn’t gloat during the car ride home. The smooth roll of the car was steadily rocking Stiles to much-needed sleep when he suddenly remembered his conversation with Rick from earlier that day.

“Hey, is it true that you bring coffee to the station when you go talk to my dad?”

Derek just shrugged, his eyes focused on the road.

"Who the hell are you?" Stiles asked incredulously.

Derek glanced over at him briefly. “I contain multitudes.”

Stiles snorted. “Are you seriously trying to be all deep by quoting Bob Dylan at me?”

“No, I’m quoting Walt Whitman at you. Are you sure you went to college?”

“Fuck you, Bob Dylan is a poet too. And you know I majored in computer science.”

Derek smirked and Stiles stared at his profile until he finally managed to fall into a deep sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a note: please don't actually force your friends into therapy the way that Derek does.
> 
> Brownies (recipe adapted from loveandlemons.com)
> 
> Ingredients:  
> 1 c granulated sugar  
> 3/4 c all-purpose flour  
> 2/3 c cocoa powder  
> 1/2 c powdered sugar  
> 1/2 c dark chocolate chips  
> 3/4 tsp sea salt  
> 2 large eggs  
> 1/2 c canola oil  
> 2 tbsp water  
> 1/2 tsp vanilla
> 
> Instructions:  
> Preheat the oven to 325°F. Lightly spray an 8x8 baking dish with cooking spray and line it with parchment paper. Spray the parchment paper.  
> In a medium bowl, combine the sugar, flour, cocoa powder, powdered sugar, chocolate chips, and salt.  
> In a large bowl, whisk together the eggs, olive oil, water, and vanilla.  
> Sprinkle the dry mix over the wet mix and stir until just combined.  
> Pour the batter into the prepared pan and use a spatula to smooth the top. Bake for 40 to 48 minutes, or until a toothpick comes out with only a few crumbs attached. Cool completely before slicing.


	4. Birthday Cake

July 6. Stiles stared at the date on his phone and had a sudden urge to throw it across the room. How could he have forgotten? 

Stiles had been finding ways to keep occupied in Beacon Hills, at the suggestion of his therapist. He went to the animal shelter in the next town over one day a week with Scott to help out with whatever they needed, and he’d enrolled in an open online course to brush up on his Python skills so that he didn’t show up to his job in August looking like a complete idiot. 

The Fourth of July had been a good distraction too; Stiles went to the annual BHPD barbecue with his dad and then met up with the others at the Hale house for a bonfire, where Stiles had drunk himself into oblivion just because he could. It had all felt very high school in a way that his actual high school years never had, and Stiles was still nursing a slight hangover two days later.

Stiles had managed to keep busy enough that the Facebook notification took him by surprise. 

**_It’s Mark Jacobson’s birthday today. Help him celebrate!_ **

By the time his dad came down for his morning cup of coffee, Stiles had already made two tiers worth of cake and was waiting for another round to finish baking. The sheriff frowned at the racks laden with cooling cakes that covered his kitchen counters and sighed. “I thought you said no more baking for awhile.”

Stiles _had_ said that, after a session with Sandy where they talked about unhealthy coping mechanisms. But today it was either baking or breaking things, and Stiles chose baking.

“It’s just cake, Dad.”

The sheriff sighed again as he started up the coffee maker. “It’s kind of a lot of cake, son.”

The timer dinged and Stiles went to take out yet another cake round. 

“I wish you’d just tell me what’s going on.”

Stiles physically jerked at the sound of his dad’s resigned plea, and the skin on the underside of his wrists grazed the boiling hot edge of the oven. Stiles dropped the cake pan instinctually as he hissed in pain.

“Shit, motherfucking fuck.” His dad was at his side in a second, leading Stiles to the sink and shoving his arms under a stream of cool water. His skin was an angry red and already starting to blister where it had made contact with the inside of the oven. 

“Sorry,” Stiles mumbled.

“You should go get this checked out, it looks pretty bad.”

“It’s okay, I’ve had worse.”

The sheriff glanced over at him with a weird look on his face. “You need to take care of yourself, kid.”

Stiles looked down at the water resolutely. “Don’t you have to get to work?”

John shook his head at the deflection. “I’m not going anywhere while you’re like this,” he gestured to Stiles’ burn marks.

“It’s really fine, Dad. I’ll go see Mrs. McCall about it, if it makes you feel better.” Stiles only felt a little bad about lying. And John knew it was a lie, but he really was going to be late for work.

“Fine.” 

Stiles waited until he heard the front door shut before he started mixing up more cake batter.

Stiles had assembled his cake tiers and was in the process of making a cream cheese frosting when the front door opened again.

“Dad, I’m fine! Go back to work,” Stiles called from the kitchen.

When Derek entered the room instead of the sheriff, Stiles dropped his whisk.

“What are you doing here? How’d you even get in?”

Derek leaned casually against the kitchen doorway, frowning as he took in the massive cake on the counter and the stack of baking tins soaking in the sink.

“Your dad left it unlocked, he seemed to think you needed medical attention.”

Stiles huffed and resumed whisking with a vengeance, annoyed that his dad would have called _Derek_ of all people. “It’s not that bad, it's only a tiny burn.”

“And the cakes?” Derek quirked an eyebrow at him inquisitively.

“It’s just cake,” Stiles found himself saying for the second time that morning.

Derek was in his personal space way too quickly, his breath hot on Stiles’ ear as he grabbed the whisk and pried Stiles’ fingers from the side of the mixing bowl.

“Hey!” Stiles tried to fight him off but he was no match for the werewolf. Eventually Derek let go of his hands entirely and the momentum sent Stiles stumbling backwards into the cake stand, sending the whole thing tumbling to the floor.

Neither man spoke as they looked at the smashed cake. Stiles suddenly began laughing–a dull, manic laugh that was devoid of any actual amusement. Somehow, without really meaning to, he’d made a fucking birthday cake. 

Stiles felt his desperate laughter begin to teeter on the edge of sobbing, and he had to get out. He couldn’t look at the destroyed cake for another second, and he refused to break down in front of Derek for the second time in as many months.

Stiles was out the door and running before he could stop to think about it. It took him a moment to realize that Derek had followed him, easily matching his stride as he all but sprinted down the road. 

They were well outside of town before Stiles finally achieved the numbness he craved. His mind was empty except for the sound of his own breathing and the feel of his feet on the asphalt. Derek still hadn’t said anything, just continued running beside him effortlessly. 

Stiles could feel himself slowing down sooner than he wanted to, his feet beginning to ache and his breath coming in short, shallow gasps. He stumbled over air and then Derek’s hand was on his arm, forcing him to a stop. Stiles bent over with his hands on his knees, panting quietly as he regained his breath. After his heart stopped feeling like it was going to beat out of his chest, Stiles turned and wordlessly started walking back the way they came. He wasn’t even entirely sure where they were, they were so far out of town.

Derek finally broke the silence, walking beside Stiles and not looking at all like he’d just run the equivalent of a 10k. “What kind of cake was it?”

Stiles looked over at him to see if he was joking, but Derek’s expression was as impassive as always. “Red velvet.”

“Sounds good,” Derek said simply.

“It was a birthday cake.”

“For Mark?” Stiles winced at the name. He hadn’t heard it since being home.

“Yeah.”

They continued in silence until they reached town, when Derek announced that he needed coffee. Stiles knew it was an invitation, and he was too tired to say no. He slumped himself into a seat at one of the outdoor tables of the familiar coffee shop while Derek went in to order.

He came back out several minutes later with two iced coffees, a glass of water that he pushed towards Stiles, and a couple of breakfast sandwiches. Stiles took a sip of his coffee and was pleasantly surprised to find that Derek had gotten it exactly the way he liked it—a splash of milk and three sugar packets. 

“Thanks,” he muttered as Derek unwrapped one of the sandwiches and slid it over to him.

Stiles was busy picking at the edges of his sandwich when Jo, one of the owners, came over to say hello.

“Stiles! Derek! So good to see you both.” Jo was the kind of woman who spoke mostly in exclamation points and always seemed genuinely happy to see you, and Stiles usually liked her very much, but he couldn't quite muster up a smile in response to her exuberant greeting.

Derek, on the other hand, smiled up at her winningly. “Hi Jo, how’s it going?”

“Oh you know,” she said with a laugh, smiling shyly back at him. Stiles knew that Derek was more attractive than the average person (he’d even had a series of very confusing wet dreams about him in high school) and that he could be charming when he wanted to be, but Stiles had never seen it so up close and personal before. And it seemed to be working, if Jo’s enthusiastic response was anything to go by. Stiles glowered across the table at Derek while she continued talking.

“I didn’t know you guys even knew each other,” her voice rose at the end in an implicit question. 

Derek kicked Stiles under the table, probably in an attempt to get him to at least pretend to be polite, but Stiles just couldn’t be bothered.

“Yeah, we’ve known each other for, what, seven years now?” Derek answered for the both of them, Stiles nodding along stiffly.

“Oh,” Jo replied, surprised. She was probably stunned that someone like Derek would even be seen in public with someone like him, Stiles thought bitterly.

“Well, it’s lovely to see you.” Jo gave Derek’s shoulder a little squeeze. Jesus, Stiles was going to puke. “Holler if you two need anything!”

Derek continued to smile at her until she was out of earshot, then immediately dropped into a frown.

“You’re being an asshole.”

Stiles snorted. “She was a bit much.”

“She’s just being nice, like a normal person.”

Stiles waved a hand at Derek. “And why were you being so fucking charming? What was that little performance about?”

Derek's frown deepened. “It’s not a performance, I was being polite.”

Stiles knew it was irrational to be so angry over nothing–it was like he could hear himself being a jerk but was powerless to stop it. He just felt like things had been changed around on him when he wasn’t looking and it left him deeply unsettled; he didn’t even recognize Derek anymore, or at least not all the time. This Derek wore rainbow-colored crocs and smiled at people and held Stiles when he had a panic attack. Stiles didn’t know how to talk to this Derek. 

“Whatever,” he mumbled.

Derek continued to stare at him like he was trying to solve a puzzle. “Eat your sandwich,” he finally said.

“‘M not hungry.” 

Derek rolled his eyes. “Sometimes I think you look so adult now, and then you go acting like a child again.”

“I’m just not hungry!”

“Have you even eaten anything today?”

Stiles hadn’t, and his silence seemed to be as good as a confirmation for Derek.

“We’ve already talked about this, Stiles. You can’t do this to yourself.”

Stiles hung his head. He knew Derek was right, as annoying as that was. After a long moment he picked up the now-cold breakfast sandwich and took a small bite. Derek nodded, satisfied, and Stiles glared at him.

“You’re such a dick.”

Derek just raised an eyebrow back at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cream Cheese Frosting (adapted from sugarspunrun.com)
> 
> Ingredients:  
> ½ c butter  
> 8 oz cream cheese, softened  
> 1 tsp vanilla extract  
> ¼ tsp salt  
> 4 c powdered sugar
> 
> Instructions:  
> Combine butter and cream cheese and beat until creamy, well-combined, and lump-free.  
> Add vanilla extract and salt and stir well to combine.  
> With the mixer on low, gradually add powdered sugar until completely combined.


	5. You Snore

Before the next pack movie night, Isaac texted Stiles to ask if he’d be okay with watching the latest Marvel movie. It made Stiles uncomfortable to be tiptoed around like that, even though he knew that Isaac was just looking out for him after what’d happened the last time they'd all tried to watch a movie together.

Stiles still felt some deep-seated desire to pretend like he was fine, that everything was perfectly _fine._ He definitely didn’t want anyone to know that he still couldn’t sleep for more than a couple of hours at a time, but it was getting increasingly difficult to hide his lack of sleep. His skin was so pale it was almost translucent, and he had permanent dark purple circles under his eyes. Stiles looked in the mirror now and barely recognized himself. 

His psychiatrist had been happy to write him a prescription for some heavy-duty sleeping pills, but even those didn’t really work. Stiles would pop a couple, sleep for a few hours, and wake up feeling like he hadn’t slept at all. By mid-July it had gotten so bad that his dad offered, only half-jokingly, to get him sedated. 

So when Stiles showed up to the Hale house looking like the walking dead he probably should’ve expected the gasp that Isaac let out when he opened the front door. Isaac made a valiant effort to cover up his initial shock at Stiles’ appearance, but his greeting still came out sounding pained. The others were just as bad; they’d all somehow gotten there before him, and their chatter stopped abruptly as Stiles walked into the living room. 

Stiles rubbed the back of his head uncomfortably. He couldn’t bring himself to look at any of them except Derek, who was staring at him with the same detached stoicism that he always did. At least Stiles could count on Derek to act normal around him, even if normalcy for Derek wasn’t particularly pleasant.

“What the fuck, Stiles.” Lydia was so angry that Stiles nearly flinched from the sound of her voice alone.

“Uh…”

“You look like shit,” she cut him off. Erica nodded her agreement.

“See, I _told_ you guys it was bad,” Scott spoke up from across the room. Stiles shot a glare at him. At least Scott had the decency to look slightly ashamed. “I didn’t want them to be shocked when they saw you,” he explained sheepishly.

“Yeah, and why haven’t we seen you?” Erica matched Lydia’s anger with every word. “And don’t tell us you’ve been busy, we all know you have nothing else to do.”

Stiles bit his lip. He didn’t think he’d been that obvious about avoiding them since the Fourth of July bonfire. He’d figured they’d all be busy enough with their own lives that they wouldn’t notice if he pretended not to see a couple of their texts. Apparently he was wrong.

“Is this jump on Stiles day or something?” He tried to sound annoyed, but it came out a touch desperate.

“Well we could’ve spread it out more if you’d just agree to see us once in a while,” Allison said it more gently than Lydia would have, but the kind understanding in her voice was somehow worse.

“I’ve seen Scott!” Stiles tried to defend himself. “And Derek,” he added, for good measure.

From the surprised looks on the others’ faces Stiles figured that they hadn’t actually known about the cake incident, or that Derek had been coming to his bedroom window on a regular basis since then to antagonize him into eating something and change the dressing on his burns.

He looked over at Derek curiously. “Was it supposed to be a secret?”

Derek just shrugged in response.

“When have you been seeing Derek?” Erica demanded.

 _“Why_ have you been seeing Derek?” Isaac added.

Stiles held up his hands. “This is so not a big deal. He comes over, he nags, I yell at him, he leaves. That’s it.”

Lydia had a dangerously calculating look on her face as she glanced between them. “Are you two fucking?”

Boyd spit out the mouthful of beer he’d been about to swallow, coughing loudly as Erica thumped him on the back. Stiles felt his jaw drop as he looked at Lydia, horrified.

“What,” he squeaked.

“You heard me,” she smirked. Oh, she was pure evil, Stiles thought. She knew there couldn’t be anything going on between them, she was just trying to stir shit up. _Fucking Lydia._

“Stiles is gay?” Isaac piped up, looking confused.

 _“Derek_ is gay?” Scott mimicked.

Stiles glanced toward Derek, but the man remained stone-faced.

“I’m bi, not gay,” Stiles said after an uncomfortably long silence. “And we are _not_ fucking,” he added quickly, flailing his arms around a tad hysterically. “Jesus christ, Lydia. Where did that even come from?”

Lydia shrugged, still smirking. _Bitch._

“Why’d you never tell us?” Erica directed her question towards Stiles.

“I don’t know, it never seemed that important.”

“But you’ve been dating guys this whole time?”

“Well I only figured it out after high school, but since then yeah," Stiles answered.

Boyd, who’d recovered from his earlier coughing fit, stared intently at him. Stiles fidgeted under the man’s intense gaze until he finally said something. “Your friend who died, were you two…?”

Stiles hung his head and pressed his hands over his eyes. He so did not want to talk about this.

“Stiles–” 

“Nope.” He cut Boyd off quickly. “No, I’m not going to do this with all of you right now. Let’s just–let’s just watch the movie, okay?”

Lydia looked like she was going to say something, but Allison gave her a quiet nudge and she closed her mouth. 

“I’m making popcorn,” Derek announced, and Stiles thought he’d never appreciated the alpha more.

The conversation slowly returned to normal, and everyone seemed willing to follow Stiles’ lead and not talk about it–for now. He could practically _feel_ Lydia gearing up for an interrogation, but she’d obviously decided not to press the issue tonight. 

Stiles ended up squished between Isaac and Derek on the couch with his entire right side pressed into the length of Derek’s body. If Derek noticed or minded that Stiles was essentially invading his personal bubble he didn’t say anything. Stiles found himself unintentionally leaning into Derek as the movie went on. The man was just so warm, and Stiles really was exhausted.

At some point Derek moved his arm to rest on the back of the couch and the shift in position caused Stiles to slide even closer into his side. Somewhere in the back of his mind Stiles thought it was weird to be sitting so close to Derek and that he really ought to put some distance between them, but he was asleep before he could work up the energy to move.

Stiles woke in the dark, the TV screen black and everyone else having returned to their own rooms or houses. He was burrowed into Derek’s side and the man’s arm was draped around him, his hand resting on Stiles’ hip. Derek himself was still sleeping, his head lolling back onto the sofa as he made soft little huffing noises in his sleep. He looked so much more normal like this–younger and more vulnerable.

Stiles was too tired to be horrified at the way that he’d fallen asleep or worry that everyone had probably seen him snuggled into Derek’s side like a puppy. Instead, he rested his head on Derek’s broad, solid chest and drifted back to sleep.

When Stiles woke up again there was sunlight streaming in through the living room windows and he could hear loud whispers coming from the kitchen behind him. 

“Shut up! You’re going to wake them up!”

“You’re the one banging all the cabinet doors shut!”

“Am not!”

“Are too!”

“Both of you are being too loud and you’re going to wake Stiles up, and then Derek is going to be pissed at all of us.”

Stiles smiled fondly at the childish bickering as he burrowed his head deeper into Derek’s chest, his eyes still tightly shut. The warm mass that Stiles was curled into shifted, and he knew immediately that Derek was awake. Stiles thought he should probably move to untangle himself from the alpha’s arms _(because Derek was still holding him and it felt really nice, actually)_ but he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. Derek was rubbing little circles into Stiles’ hip bone over his clothes, and his steady heartbeat beneath Stiles’ ear was already lulling him back to sleep. Stiles realized with a shock that he actually felt truly _rested_ for the first time in a very long time.

“I’m awake and I can hear you.” Derek didn’t move from his position on the couch as he spoke to his pack. Stiles heard a few muttered curses.

“Sorry, Derek. We didn’t mean to wake you up.”

Stiles felt Derek shrug, the movement jostling his head slightly. The hand that had been rubbing soothing circles into his side now gave him a light nudge, and Derek leaned down so that his mouth was centimeters from Stiles’ ear when he spoke.

“I know you’re awake. Go to your room and sleep for a few more hours.” 

Pulling himself away from Derek was like leaving a warm blanket for a blizzard, but Stiles managed to stumble his way to the bed and collapse onto it before falling asleep again.

The third time that Stiles woke up it was late afternoon and he’d lost most of the day. Vague recollections of the previous night came back to him, and he blushed retroactively as he thought of how he’d slept curled comfortably into Derek’s side. But it’s not like Derek had seemed to mind. He could have woken Stiles up when the movie ended, or made him move to the guest bedroom. _Your bedroom,_ Derek had called it that morning. Stiles couldn’t help the rush of pleasure that swept through him at the memory. 

Maybe he should’ve been more freaked out about how comfortable he apparently felt around Derek, especially considering their friendship had been tentative at best until a few weeks ago. But Derek had been there for Stiles, holding him through his panic attack, bringing him to therapy, running with him when he needed to escape, feeding him when he couldn’t feed himself. 

Derek _cared_ about Stiles

And sure, it was probably just the way Derek cared about everyone in the pack, but Stiles couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so completely protected by someone. It was pretty overwhelming, though not at all upsetting.

Stiles headed to the kitchen feeling better than he had in a long time, and his heartbeat quickened as he caught sight of Derek sitting at the kitchen counter, glowering at something on his laptop.

“Good morning. Or afternoon, I guess. Thanks for letting me, you know.” Stiles gestured vaguely to the couch they’d been sleeping on just a few hours earlier.

“You snore,” was all Derek said to him in response. Stiles swore he could see the hint of a smile on the man’s face. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Movie theater popcorn (recipe adapted from recipetineats.com)
> 
> Ingredients:  
> 6 tbsp ghee (clarified butter)  
> ¾ c popcorn kernels  
> 1 tsp salt
> 
> Instructions:  
> Place 3 tbsp ghee in a large 10L/10qt pot over medium heat and melt.  
> Add kernels, shake quickly to spread across the base, then clamp lid on.  
> Shake briefly once after 30 seconds or so. When the popping stops, immediately pour popcorn into a large bowl.  
> Melt the remaining 3 tbsp ghee in a microwave. Pour over popcorn, sprinkle over salt. Shake and toss well to disperse.


	6. Wedding Rings

Something was wrong with Derek. Stiles couldn’t say exactly how he knew–maybe it was something in the way Derek stood just a little bit stiffer than normal or the tense set of his shoulders–but something was off. No one else seemed to notice, not even the other pack members who were busy goofing off in the backyard and enjoying the late afternoon sun.

Stiles managed to corner Derek in the kitchen when he went to grab another beer. The older man just sort of grunted at him and moved to rejoin the others outside, but stopped when Stiles put up a hand in front of him. He looked at Stiles in surprise but didn’t try to push past him. 

“What’s going on, man?”

Derek’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly as he tried to brush it off. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Stiles huffed in frustration, “I can tell that something’s wrong. So, what is it? Because if I’m going to have to spend the rest of my summer vacation hunting down some _thing_ that wants to kill us I’d rather know now.”

Derek opened his mouth, then closed it again. Stiles rolled his eyes. “What, you tell me I need to share all my feelings but you won’t talk about whatever’s up your ass? Hypocritical much?”

Derek sighed. “I got a letter from a bank in Sacramento.”

“And?” Stiles prompted when Derek didn’t continue.

“And apparently Laura had a safe deposit box there that she never told me about. She must’ve had automatic payments set up, but the fee for this year hasn’t been paid and they’re asking me what I want to do about it.”

Stiles stayed quiet for a moment, carefully chewing over his next words.

“Do you want to go see what’s in it? Sacramento is only an hour’s drive, we can be back before the others even notice.”

Derek turned to him sharply. “We?”

Stiles rolled his eyes again. Honestly, the man was so dumb sometimes. “Yes we, I’m not going to send you to look through your sister’s last remaining possessions _alone_ you idiot.”

Derek looked like he was still considering it, so Stiles decided to take the initiative and just grab the keys to the Camaro from the hook by the door. “Come on, we’re taking your car.”

Derek still didn’t say anything, so Stiles figured he was probably fine with that plan. He left Derek in the kitchen and said a quick goodbye to the others, just telling them that he and Derek were running an errand and would be back later that night. He pointedly ignored Lydia’s smug grin.

By the time Stiles got to the Camaro, Derek was already sitting in the driver’s seat. Stiles handed over the keys wordlessly and buckled himself in on the passenger side.

“Road trip!” he exclaimed as Derek pulled out of the driveway, ignoring the glare that was sent his way in response.

The drive was quiet, as most things with Derek were. Stiles rambled on about his capstone project and his new job and anything else that came to mind, and Derek half-listened. With every mile they drove, Stiles could see the alpha’s knuckles becoming increasingly whiter where they gripped the steering wheel.

“Hey, remember when you slammed my head into the steering wheel when I was in high school?”

Derek snorted.

“That was definitely assault, I totally could have gotten you thrown in jail for that.”

“You did get me thrown in jail. Murder suspect, remember?”

“Oh, yeah.” Stiles looked down at his lap, his tone subdued. “I am sorry about that. I don’t think I ever really apologized, at the time. That was fucked up.”

“I got over that a long time ago,” Derek admitted as they pulled into the bank parking lot, and Stiles let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. 

They stood hunched over the contents of the safe deposit box, the bank teller waiting a discreet distance away. Some of it was regular paperwork: the deeds to what Stiles assumed were houses somewhere, birth certificates for the Hale children, a couple of passports. There was also a spectacular diamond necklace that Stiles assumed was some sort of family heirloom, and a satin pouch that contained two gold rings. Derek stared down at the rings for a silent minute, his eyes flashing the way they always did when he was struggling to maintain control.

“My parents’ wedding rings,” he said finally, his voice hollow.

Stiles reached out a tentative hand to grasp Derek’s shoulder, for once at a loss for words.

Derek took the satin pouch and the rings with him, but left the rest to be locked up again by the friendly bank teller. He transferred ownership to himself and paid the annual fee, and then they were back on the road to Beacon Hills.

“It’s okay to talk about them, if you want to,” Stiles said once they were on the highway.

Derek looked at him incredulously. 

“Okay, yes, I know I haven’t exactly been good at talking about my own issues. But you can, I’ll listen.”

It was another twenty miles before Derek responded. “Dad used to read us bedtime stories every night. My favorite was Where the Wild Things Are.”

Stiles laughed lightly. “Of course it was.”

Derek fell silent again, so Stiles worked up the courage to fill the quiet with a memory of his own. “My mom used to read to me too, she did all the character voices and everything.”

“Dad would let Laura make all the funny voices, she loved that.”

“Mark used to make his own sound effects when we played video games, and he’d narrate the movies we watched.”

Derek glanced over at him. “That sounds like something you’d do.”

Stiles smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah, we were too much alike sometimes. It’s why we broke up, in the end. Turns out it’s not actually that fun to date yourself.”

“How long were you together?” Derek’s voice was cautious, but his question was blunt. Answering him felt like ripping a bandaid off.

“About a year. I really–” Stiles stopped, gathering his voice, “I really loved him, you know?”

“I know,” Derek responded, and Stiles believed that he did.

Lydia hunted him down later that week, storming into the coffee shop where Stiles was slumped over his laptop.

“Um, hi?” 

Lydia glowered at him as she threw herself into the seat across from him. “You’d better start talking, Stiles.” 

He shifted in his seat uncomfortably. “What exactly do you want to know?”

“Why haven’t you been home in a year? Why do you look worse every time I see you? And what the fuck is going on with you and Derek?” She glared at him as though he should’ve anticipated her questions—and maybe he should have.

“I didn’t mean to avoid coming home for so long, sorry.” She looked at him skeptically and he sighed. “I haven’t been avoiding you guys, I swear. I’ve been avoiding dealing with what happened with Mark, that’s all.” Saying his name didn’t hurt as much as it had a few weeks earlier.

“So?” Lydia gestured at him to continue. “What happened with Mark?”

Trust Lydia to cut straight to the point. Stiles fidgeted with his straw wrapper absentmindedly, his eyes still trained on his now-black computer screen.

“He killed himself.”

It was getting easier to lay it out there like that, but Stiles still had to fight back the memories that he’d been pushing to the edges of his consciousness for the past year. Lydia let out a little gasp and reached out to grab Stiles’ hand in her own.

“It wasn’t your fault.” And there it was, yet another person telling Stiles not to blame himself—like it was that easy.

“I just don’t understand how I didn’t see it,” he mumbled to himself. “How could I not see that he was struggling?” _Because you were being selfish and you didn’t care enough and you were a bad friend,_ answered the cruel voice in the back of his head. Lydia’s grip on his hand turned vice-like. 

“This was not your fault, Stiles. How many times have you helped us? How many times have you saved all of us? You always saw what was happening, even if the rest of us didn’t. If you didn’t see the problems that Mark was having it’s because he didn’t want you to. It is not your fault.”

Stiles glanced up at Lydia and was startled to see her eyes filling with tears. All these years, and Stiles still couldn’t handle seeing Lydia Martin cry. She seemed to sense his discomfort and patted his hand once before swiping under her eyes and pulling herself together as effortlessly as she always had.

“Well, at least things make sense now. You haven’t been sleeping?” Her tone was business-like, as though they were discussing her work in nuclear physics.

“Not very well,” Stiles admitted. 

“You know I have a psychiatrist on speed dial who could help with that.”

“I’ve tried pills, they don’t work.”

“You seemed to sleep just fine all snuggled up with Derek a couple weeks ago.” Lydia’s expression shifted to smugness.

“Don’t,” Stiles warned her. “Whatever you think is going on with me and Derek is not happening.”

Lydia rolled her eyes. “I can’t tell if you’re trying to dodge me—which won’t work, by the way—or if you’re just really that oblivious.”

“Oblivious to what?”

She heaved an exasperated sigh, but Stiles genuinely wasn’t sure what she was referring to.

“I’m talking about the massive amounts of sexual tension between you and Derek, and the fact that you obviously care about each other.”

“Whoa,” Stiles held up a hand as if he were trying to physically defend himself from her words. “First of all, there is no _tension_ between me and Derek. Second of all, yeah we care about each other. He treats me like pack, I guess, and it’s not like I hate him. We’re _friends.”_

“Oh honey,” Lydia was straight up laughing at him now, “half the time I can’t tell if you and Derek are about to start arguing or making out.”

Stiles made as if to dispute her claim, but Lydia forged ahead. “And he isn’t treating you ‘like pack,’ do you think he would’ve been this involved if it were one of the rest of us going through something?” She didn’t wait for his response before answering her own question. “No, he would not. Derek might be less emotionally stunted than he used to be, but if it were anyone else he’d be ignoring the problem until it went away. He only cares like this about _you,_ Stiles.”

Stiles spluttered as he tried to think of an appropriate rebuttal, but it was like his mind was stuck replaying the words that Lydia had just said to him.

“I’m going to get a coffee,” she announced finally, and left Stiles sitting alone with his confusion. 

Stiles baked two loaves of banana bread that night and tried not to think about what Lydia had said to him. It didn’t work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Banana Bread (recipe adapted from simplyrecipes.com)
> 
> Ingredients:  
> 2 large, very ripe bananas, peeled  
> ⅓ c melted butter  
> 1 tsp baking soda  
> Pinch of salt  
> ½ c sugar  
> 1 large egg, beaten  
> 1 tsp vanilla extract  
> 1 ½ c all-purpose flour  
> Optional: ¾ c chocolate chips
> 
> Instructions:  
> Preheat the oven to 350°F and butter a 4x8-inch loaf pan.  
> In a mixing bowl, mash the ripe bananas with a fork until completely smooth. Stir the melted butter into the mashed bananas.  
> Mix in the baking soda and salt. Stir in the sugar, beaten egg, and vanilla extract. Mix in the flour.  
> Optional: fold in chocolate chips.  
> Pour the batter into your prepared loaf pan. Bake for 50 minutes to 1 hour at 350°F or until a tester inserted into the center comes out clean.  
> Remove from loaf pan and cool completely on a wire rack before slicing.


	7. Yes

Stiles’ heart skipped a beat at the familiar tapping sound at his window. Derek hauled himself into the room without waiting for an invitation, landing noiselessly on the carpet.

“Hey.” Stiles kept his eyes trained on his computer, but he found he couldn’t remember what he was doing on it in the first place.

Derek grunted out a greeting and Stiles heard the squeak of bed springs that meant the man had laid down on the old twin bed in the corner. Stiles watched him out of the corner of his eye and nearly skipped a breath when Derek stretched out languidly across the plaid comforter.

He was all long lines and chiseled muscles, and Stiles wondered why he’d never noticed before how beautiful Derek was. And seeing him sprawled out like that on _Stiles’ bed_ was kind of causing his brain to short-circuit.

_He only cares like this about you._

“Calm down,” Derek said from across the room, his eyes closed.

Shit. Stiles had forgotten about the whole super hearing thing, and he tried desperately to slow his heartbeat. If Derek knew why Stiles was so worked up he didn’t say anything, but Stiles burned with embarrassment anyway. 

Stiles turned back to his computer and clicked around aimlessly for a few minutes, only stopping to look up at the sound of soft snoring. Derek was asleep on the bed, curled up on his side and clutching a pillow to his chest. Stiles felt an unbidden surge of affection as he looked over at the man’s sleeping form. He took a moment to just stare at Derek, who’d been transformed in sleep from intimidatingly beautiful to endearingly adorable, and tried to untangle the mess of feelings coursing through him. 

There was something about knowing that Derek felt comfortable enough with Stiles to fall asleep in his bed that made his chest feel painfully tight. Deciding finally that it was too late to deal with whatever _that_ was, Stiles eventually squeezed in beside Derek and drifted off to sleep.

Stiles woke up to Derek clambering over him to get out of the twin bed, and the space next to him felt abruptly empty and cold. He scrubbed at his eyes and leaned back against the headboard, watching silently as Derek laced up his sneakers at the end of the bed. It was still dark out. 

“Lydia thinks you like me,” Stiles blurted out suddenly. _What the fuck was that?_ He wanted to gather up the words and shove them back in his mouth. Derek’s hands slowed over his shoes but he didn’t say anything, and Stiles felt a brief flare of annoyance.

“Well? Is she right?” He winced at the tinge of desperation in his own voice, but now that the question had been asked Stiles felt like he’d die if he didn’t hear the answer in the next ten seconds.

Derek’s hands stilled completely but he still didn’t look up. 

“Yes,” he mumbled to the floor.

Stiles’ heart stopped. “Yes?” He repeated incredulously.

Derek sighed, rubbing his hands over his jeans and twisting around to look at him. “I don’t know, Stiles. I don’t…” he trailed off nervously. “I like being around you, but I just don’t know what this is,” he finally finished, gesturing between the two of them.

Derek was halfway to the window when Stiles managed to get his arms around him.

“We can figure it out,” he whispered into Derek’s broad back. He wondered if Derek could hear his heart beating so fast it felt like it was about to pound right out of his chest. Stiles didn’t know what he wanted, but he knew that he couldn’t let Derek leave. He couldn’t stand the idea of waking up alone and thinking he’d dreamed the whole thing.

Derek turned in Stiles’ hold so that they were facing each other and pressed his face into Stiles’ hair, breathing deeply. He dropped a soft kiss onto the top of his head before unhooking Stiles’ arms from around his waist and disappearing out the window wordlessly, leaving Stiles alone in the dark silence.

_Fuck._

Stiles waited until his dad left for work this time. He stood in the kitchen for most of the afternoon and let the sickeningly-sweet scent of cherry pie filling cloud out the memory of what had happened earlier that morning. Not for the first time in his life, Stiles wished he could meditate; he would give anything for an empty mind. Sometime later that night he found what he was looking for at the bottom of one of his dad’s bottles of scotch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cherry Pie Bars (recipe adapted from thecountrycook.net)
> 
> Ingredients:  
> 1 c butter, softened  
> 2 c sugar  
> 1 tsp salt  
> 4 large eggs  
> 1 tsp vanilla extract  
> ¼ tsp almond extract  
> 3 c all-purpose flour  
> 2 21 oz cans cherry pie filling
> 
> Instructions:  
> Preheat oven to 350°F. In a large bowl, cream butter, sugar and salt.  
> Add eggs, one at a time, beating well after each addition. Beat in extracts. Gradually add flour.  
> Spread 3 cups dough into a greased 15x10x1-in. baking pan. Spread with pie filling.  
> Drop remaining dough by teaspoonfuls over filling. Bake 30-35 minutes or until golden brown. Cool completely in pan on a wire rack.


	8. Ouch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: suicidal thoughts
> 
> If you or someone you know is struggling with suicidal thoughts / ideation, please get help. National suicide prevention lifeline (United States): 800-273-8255

Stiles hadn’t slept. Derek was avoiding him, or maybe he was avoiding Derek, and _that night_ seemed to plague Stiles’ every thought. He still didn’t know what he wanted and the confusion of it all was slowly eating away at him; he felt Derek’s absence like a physical hole in his stomach. 

He hadn’t realized how much he’d come to depend on Derek’s steady company since he’d come home. Without him it was like Stiles had been set adrift without an anchor, left to deal with the shaking nightmares and panic attacks on his own. He wanted to slap himself out of it; he’d been perfectly fine on his own for most of his life–since his mother died, really–and he shouldn’t _need_ Derek like this.

It reminded Stiles of the numb sort of grief he’d felt after Mark’s death, which was completely unfair given that Derek was still very much alive. But the longer they went without speaking, the more it felt like Derek only existed in Stiles’ memories.

Six days after it happened, John came home late one night to find Stiles surrounded by trays of peanut butter cookies and looking like he was near collapse. He took one look at his son and pushed him forcibly into a chair at the kitchen table.

“We’re talking about this, right now.” 

Stiles was too tired to even attempt to avoid the conversation. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t need you to be sorry, Stiles,” John said roughly. “I need you to tell me what’s wrong.”

Stiles didn’t know why he couldn’t form the words, why he couldn’t just tell his dad about Mark and the panic attacks and the nightmares. And Derek. It was the situation with Derek that Stiles couldn’t handle most of all. 

Stiles was horrified to realize that he was near tears, and he pinched his thigh under the table to try to fend them off.

But John seemed to sense how on edge Stiles was anyway. “It’s okay to be sad, son,” he said gently.

And suddenly Stiles couldn’t hold back anymore, because that was exactly it: he _was_ sad, and had been for so long that it was starting to feel like his default. He’d been trying so hard to pretend that everything was fine, but he was exhausted.

It was just second nature, at this point, to act like he was okay even when he really, really wasn’t. When they’d been facing down monsters in high school, Stiles had learned how to force down his emotions and confront his worst nightmares with nothing but a baseball bat and his wits. He’d had to be strong mentally because he couldn’t be strong physically—what else had he brought to the table, if not his brain? Compared to the werewolves and druids and banshees that comprised his friend group, Stiles was weak. But he’d figured out his place as the token human in all of that supernatural mess, and he’d made himself useful. 

Stiles almost wished that he could go back to dealing with psychotic hunters and murderous alpha packs if it meant he didn’t have to deal with any of this shit. Because this problem was undeniably, unbearably _human_. There was no magical solution, no last-minute hail mary that Stiles could swoop in with to save the day. There was no way to fix this.

Stiles laid his head down on the old kitchen table and sobbed, gasping for air as a year’s worth of repressed emotion poured out of him all at once. He felt like he was drowning. 

At some point Stiles registered his father’s arms around his shoulders and the comforting lilt of John’s voice in his ear.

“It’s okay, kid, let it out.” Stiles sobbed even harder at that, feeling wretched and embarrassed and like he was five years old again. 

When his tears finally subsided, Stiles picked his head up off the table and looked over at his father miserably.

“I don’t know what to do, Dad.” His voice was hoarse. “I can’t sleep, I feel like I’m going insane.”

“Is it because of Mark?” The sheriff asked, pressing a tissue into his son’s shaking hand.

Stiles wiped at his nose. “I don’t even know anymore.” He paused, but forced himself to keep going. “We were together, like, romantically for a while, I’m sorry I didn’t say anything.”

“I know, son.” Stiles looked at him in surprise and John managed to huff out a laugh. “I’m a police officer, Stiles. And more than that, I’m your _dad._ I could tell from the way you talked about him.”

Stiles nodded and twisted the wet tissue between his fingers. “He killed himself, Dad.” He didn't look up to see his dad's expression.

“I keep going over it in my head, trying to figure out why he did it. I was so busy last summer that I didn’t even notice,” Stiles said in anguish.

John reached for his son’s hand but Stiles yanked it away violently. “It’s like I didn’t want to notice, because I finally felt like I was doing good, you know? I kept telling myself that I’d call him when I had more time, but then I never did.” 

It was a one-sided conversation that Stiles had been having with himself for months, trying to figure out when and how everything had gotten so fucked up.

“He put me in the note,” Stiles said blankly. “They let me read it afterwards. He said he loved me, Dad. How could he have loved me when I didn’t even call him back? How could he love me and then leave me like that?”

“It wasn’t about you, Stiles.” John grasped his son’s hands firmly in both of his own, ignoring Stiles’ attempts to twist out of his grip. “It wasn’t anything you did. Mark did love you, but he was dealing with something that had nothing to do with you. A phone call wouldn’t have stopped him. It was never about you.” 

Stiles looked up at his dad and, for the first time, he almost believed what was being said to him. His dad had never lied to him, not about anything this important.

Stiles hung his head again. “I don’t deserve it,” he whispered to the table. 

“Don’t deserve what, Stiles? To forgive yourself?”

Stiles made a low whining noise deep in the back of his throat. “To be alive.”

And there it was, the heart of everything that Stiles had been thinking since Mark’s death. He tried to ignore the way his dad’s grip on his hands tightened painfully—he couldn’t face him, now that he’d finally said it out loud.

“Stiles, look at me.”

It took physical effort for Stiles to meet his father’s gaze. The pain that he saw there was enough to send him reeling. He wished he hadn’t said anything. How could Stiles have said that to his dad, when he knew that he was all that the man had left in the world?

“You deserve to be here, Stiles.” John’s voice was wavering. “You need to be here.”

Stiles shook his head. “He was so _good,_ Dad. So much better than I am. How can he be gone when I’m still here?”

The rising panic on John’s face had Stiles speaking quickly, trying desperately to reassure him. “I’m not—“ Jesus, how had he made such a mess of things? “I’m not thinking about killing myself, Dad. I promise, I wouldn’t leave you alone like that.”

John didn’t look any calmer. “I want you to want to live for yourself, Stiles, not just for me.”

“I’m sorry.” Stiles felt like all did lately was apologize for hurting the people he cared about the most.

John’s expression shifted from frightened to angry in a millisecond. “You need to stop apologizing for things that are outside of your control, kid. You’re taking on all of this responsibility that isn’t yours.” He paused before adding, “And you have to tell me when things get bad like this. You promised me no more lying, right?”

Stiles didn’t answer, just stared at his dad for a moment like he was trying to memorize his features.

“I’m tired,” he said finally, signaling the end of the conversation. John let out a shaky sigh.

“I know, son. Go to bed, I’ll call out of work tomorrow.”

“You don’t have to,” Stiles mumbled.

“Yes,” John said, his voice harsh, “I do.”

Stiles slept fitfully, but at least it was sleep. His dad spent the night slumped over in a chair next to his bed, ready to reach over and rub Stiles’ back soothingly every time he woke up. Stiles wondered dimly if he was on suicide watch, and wished he could go back in time and take back what he’d said. He couldn’t seem to stop saying stupid shit, lately.

After 15 hours of drifting in and out of consciousness, Stiles finally woke up. His dad had been replaced by Derek in the chair at his bedside, and Stiles felt an odd sense of relief followed by cold dread. He desperately tried not to think about the last time Derek had been in his room.

“You’re up,” Derek noted shortly.

“Why are you here?” Stiles meant it to sound accusatory but it was more groggy than anything, his voice cracking with sleep.

“Your dad told me what you said, last night.”

Stiles ran a tired hand over his face, pushing up against the mattress to sit upright. “You two are thick as thieves, apparently.”

Derek didn’t even bother glaring in response, his tone even and determined as he stared blankly at Stiles. “I’m taking you to Sandy, I’ve booked you a double session.”

The idea of having to explain himself all over again was enough to make Stiles nauseous. “I don’t want to go.”

Now Derek was glaring at him. “I don’t give a fuck. I’ll put you in the trunk if I have to, you’re going.”

In the end, Stiles did let himself be pushed into Derek’s car (the passenger seat, not the trunk) and then into Sandy’s office.

It wasn’t as painful to talk to her as it had been to talk to his dad, but it still felt like someone was ripping open his chest with a chainsaw and leaving his insides exposed for everyone to see. Per usual, he left feeling emotionally empty but overall a little better. 

As they walked back to the parking lot, Stiles noticed Derek staring at him in his periphery. He came to a full stop, forcing Derek to backtrack a couple of paces when he realized that Stiles was no longer at his side.

“Stop looking at me like that,” Stiles demanded.

Derek huffed and crossed his arms over his chest, defensive. “Looking at you like what?”

Stiles gestured at the other man’s face. “Like you pity me, like you’re scared of me! You’ve never looked at me like that before.”

“I don’t pity you, Stiles.” His voice was sharp enough to cut glass. “I’m angry.”

 _“You’re_ pissed off at _me?!”_ Stiles almost wanted to laugh at his audacity. “You’re the one who dropped a fucking bomb on me in the middle of the night and then left!”

“You asked me how I felt! Was I supposed to lie?”

“You weren’t supposed to disappear!” Stiles was near shouting now, and a few passersby were glancing over at the pair of them suspiciously.

“I’m not having this conversation with you here,” Derek whispered furiously. 

“Oh? Where _are_ we going to have this conversation, then? Because last time I wanted to talk you jumped out the fucking window.”

Derek didn’t have a response to that one. “Just…” he motioned toward the Camaro. “In the car.”

Stiles was tempted to continue yelling in the middle of the parking lot just to spite him, but he snapped his mouth shut and stomped over to the car instead. Once both doors were firmly closed, Derek started again.

“It makes me angry when I see you not eating, not taking care of yourself. Do you know how it felt to have your dad call me at six in the morning because he was afraid to leave you alone while he took a nap? He was so freaked out, Stiles. And I felt—“ he broke off, and Stiles was worried for a moment that he might actually be about to cry. Derek took a shuddering breath, but when he spoke again his voice was steady. “I can’t stand the idea of you not being here.” 

He didn’t add _because you killed yourself_ to the end of his sentence, for which Stiles was grateful. Derek rubbed at his temples like he had a headache, and for once Stiles wasn’t tempted to fill the sudden silence. Derek looked over at him again.

“I didn’t like not having you here.” His final admission was practically a whisper.

Stiles sighed heavily, the coil of anger in his gut slowly unwinding itself.

“C’mere,” he said at last, pulling Derek into a brief, awkward hug over the gear shift. “I missed you too, you stupid wolf.”

Derek nodded into Stiles’ shoulder once before he pulled away to shove his key in the ignition. They drove home with the radio crackling quietly in the background. Stiles rested his heavy head against the window, staring out at the blurring scenery but somehow only seeing Derek’s face reflected back at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Peanut Butter Cookies
> 
> Ingredients:  
> 1 c peanut butter  
> ½ c sugar  
> 1 large egg
> 
> Instructions:  
> Preheat oven to 350°F. Line two baking sheets with parchment paper.  
> Mix peanut butter, sugar, and egg together in a bowl until smooth. Roll mixture into 18-20 small balls and arrange on baking sheets. Flatten each with the back of a fork, making a criss-cross pattern.  
> Bake for 10 minutes or until just starting to firm. Allow cookies to cool on the baking sheet for 2 minutes before moving to a cooling rack.


	9. Figure It Out

Stiles was pulling his Jeep into the driveway of the Hale house before he realized what he was doing. He really should’ve been more concerned that he couldn’t remember anything about the drive, but he was so tired that he didn’t much care. The insomnia had been getting worse despite his regular sessions with Sandy, and his dad had taken to sleeping on the couch so that he could hear when Stiles got up in the middle of the night.

But the Sheriff had been called to the station to deal with one crisis or another, and when Stiles found himself alone in the house and once again unable to sleep he had grabbed his car keys and headed to the Hale house on autopilot. Somehow he knew that he’d sleep better if he was near Derek.

But now that he was actually in front of the house, Stiles wanted nothing more than to turn around and drive home.  _ What the hell had he been thinking?  _ Well, he hadn’t really been thinking—Stiles was so sleep-deprived he felt like he was operating in some kind of fugue state. 

He was about to reverse back down the driveway and forget all about this brief moment of insanity when the front door suddenly creaked open, revealing a groggy-looking Derek wearing nothing but a pair of sweatpants. 

“Stiles?” He called, sounding alarmed. “Are you hurt?”

Stiles shut off the car and stepped out, running a hand through the hair at the back of his neck. 

“I’m okay.”

“Oh,” Derek responded, still concerned.

Stiles sighed heavily and stumbled up the front steps so that he was standing face-to-face with Derek. 

“I sleep better here, can I just…” he gestured to the open doorway, and Derek’s expression turned soft in a way that it never did in the light of day. 

“Haven’t been sleeping?”

Stiles shrugged and Derek waved him into the house ahead of him. He didn’t realize that he was heading for Derek’s room rather than the guest room until he was already standing in the doorway. He looked over at Derek nervously, but the man just pointed to his sneakers.

“Shoes off, then sleep.”

Stiles was too tired to respond. He toed out of his shoes and slid beneath the comforter, breathing in the scent of Derek on the pillows as he burrowed into them.

“Don’t leave,” he mumbled into the bedding. Derek didn’t reply, but the bed dipped as he crawled in next to Stiles. He could tell that Derek was tense, carefully holding himself as far to one side of the bed as possible. Stiles felt a bubble of frustration blooming in his stomach, though he didn’t have the mental energy to process why.

Acting almost more out of instinct than anything else, Stiles reached one of his long arms across Derek’s chest to grab the man’s forearm, tugging it over him as he rolled onto his side. Derek let him position his arm around his waist, and after a few hesitant moments he nuzzled his chin into the crook between Stiles’ neck and shoulder. Stiles could feel Derek’s stubble rubbing across the sensitive skin there, but he was asleep before he had time to think about the fact that he was essentially being spooned by Derek Hale.

Stiles woke to a sharp jab in his side. 

“Mfgh?”

“Your dad is on the phone,” Derek hissed to him, one of his hands pressed over the microphone on his cell. “He’s panicking.”

Stiles jolted upright.  _ Shit. _ He definitely hadn’t told his dad where he was going. And he’d probably left his phone behind too.

“He’s awake now, you can talk to him.” Derek shoved the phone into his hand, and Stiles tentatively brought it to his ear.

“Hi, Dad.”

“Stiles? What the everloving hell were you thinking?”

“I’m sorry! I couldn’t sleep–”

“So you left in the middle of the night without leaving so much as a note? You shouldn’t even be on the road! You’re sleep deprived and it was the middle of the night, what if something happened? What if you’d rolled over into a ditch and nobody found you until the morning?”

Stiles ran a hand through his messy hair. “I was safe, I promise. I’m fine now, I’m okay.”

He listened to his dad’s ragged breathing over the phone for a second. “I’m really sorry, Dad. I didn’t mean to freak you out, I promise.” 

A heavy sigh came through from the other end. “I know, I know. I just got worried when I came home and you weren’t here.”

“I’m sorry,” Stiles apologized again. Derek made an irritated grunt as he shifted beside him, a noise that must have carried over the phone.

“Are you in Derek Hale’s bed?” 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Stiles mumbled.

“I mean he wouldn’t be my first choice for you, but I guess as long as you’re being safe it’s–”

“Jesus christ, Dad!” Stiles could feel his face heating up; there was absolutely no chance that Derek hadn’t heard that. “I’m hanging up now.” 

“Okay, just don’t do that to me again.” At least he didn’t sound quite so angry anymore. In fact, Stiles could practically hear the smugness in his dad’s voice. It was almost as bad as having to see the actual smug smile that had taken up residence on Derek’s stupidly gorgeous face.

“Not a fucking word,” he said, and turned on his side to fall back asleep.

The second time that Stiles was violently woken up that morning, it was to the sound of the bedroom door slamming back on its hinges.

“Derek, Stiles is–” Erica cut off abruptly as she took in the scene before her. Derek had been lying on his back, Stiles’ head on his chest and their legs tangled together in the sheets, but when Erica banged the door open he shifted so that he was partially hovering over Stiles. Derek made a noise that resembled a sleepy growl, and Erica backed up about two paces. Derek quickly relaxed and rolled back off of Stiles, though he kept his arms wrapped around him protectively.

“Sorry,” he muttered, and Stiles, stunned and groggy, couldn’t do much more than nod in response.

Erica removed her hands from where they were clasped over her mouth. “Ohmygod, sorry, sorry! I didn’t know…” she gestured at them on the bed. “Sorry! I was just coming to tell you that Stiles’ Jeep is parked out front. But, uh, obviously you already know that,” she finished lamely before turning on her heel and closing the door firmly behind her. 

Stiles had never heard her sound so uncertain, and he almost wanted to revel in being the person to finally shake Erica’s usual cool confidence. But then he realized  _ why  _ she’d been so uncomfortable.

“Fuck,” Stiles said after she’d left. “How insufferable do you think she’s going to be about this?”

Derek smiled a little. “Very. I could always pull rank on her if it gets to be too much.”

“Perks of being the alpha, I guess.”

“I guess,” Derek echoed, sounding suddenly uncertain. Stiles looked up at him for a moment.

“You’re doing good, you know? It seems like you finally got the pack shit figured out.”

Derek tightened his grip around Stiles for just a second before letting him go entirely, but it was enough for Stiles to understand his gratitude for the compliment. Stiles had become awfully good at reading Derek's little gestures and deciphering the meaning behind his silences. It really wasn’t a bad skill to have, though he had no idea when he’d started learning it. Probably the first time they’d met out in the woods, back when Derek’s harsh glare was still enough to intimidate him into awkward babbling. Now he only rambled uncontrollably when he was desperately trying to cover up his attraction to the man.

Derek rolled out of the bed with surprising grace and shuffled over to his dresser, pulling on a t-shirt before continuing to the bathroom. The whole thing felt surprisingly intimate, and Stiles worked to keep his heartbeat steady as he watched Derek get ready for the day through the open ensuite door. 

  
  


Two hours and several pancakes later, Stiles fidgeted nervously from his position at the end of the couch while Derek pointedly ignored his presence, his nose planted firmly in a book.

“Look, can we talk about this?”

Derek turned the page, not bothering to look up at Stiles.

“Talk about what?”

“Don’t be an ass, you know what.”

Derek sighed and carefully placed his bookmark before setting aside his novel. “Sorry, it’s a defense mechanism.”

Stiles recognized the wording from one of his own sessions with Sandy and he gave a dry chuckle. “You really do go to therapy.”

“I’m the one who brought you in the first place.” Derek rolled his eyes and stretched his arms over his head. Stiles followed the movement with his eyes for just a bit too long before coughing awkwardly and looking away.

“Um, so, sorry about just showing up here last night. I know you want space or whatever, I just wasn’t thinking and–”

Derek cut him off with a wave. “It’s fine, I’d rather you come here than not sleep. And who said I wanted space?”

“Well I guess I just assumed that’s what you wanted, given that you’ve been avoiding me since, you know.”

“You’re the one who’s been avoiding  _ me, _ Stiles.”

“Okay, so maybe we’ve both been avoiding each other. Like a mutual avoidance.” He flailed his arms in agitation. “That’s not even the point, here.” 

“What is the point?”

“I–” What was the point? Stiles honestly wasn’t sure he knew–as always, his mouth was about ten steps ahead of his brain. Finally, after a longer silence than was entirely comfortable, he tried again. “I guess the point is that I think I like you, which is fucking weird but I’m pretty sure that’s what’s happening, and I think you like me too.”

Derek crossed his arms over his chest. “Why’s it weird?”

“God, you know why it’s weird! You’re  _ Derek,”  _ Stiles gestured over at him, sweeping his arm broadly to encompass Derek’s whole being, “and I’m  _ me. _ ”

“I don’t think it’s that weird.”

Stiles huffed out a frustrated sigh. “Can you stop being difficult?”

“I’m not being difficult, Stiles.” 

Stiles hated how much he liked the way that Derek sometimes ended sentences with his name; he worked to keep himself annoyed rather than melt into the sound of it.

“You are difficult! That, just now, was you being difficult. Jesus christ, why do I like you again?”

“You don’t like me,” Derek muttered.

“What?” Stiles was staring at him now. Derek sat up straighter and looked directly into Stiles’ eyes.

“You don’t actually like me. You’re upset and you’re going through something, and I’ve been helping you. You’ll get over it as soon as you leave for San Diego or wherever it is you’re going.”

Stiles felt a bizarre desire to laugh, but he shoved it down and tried to keep his tone as neutral as possible.

“Okay well first of all, we both know that you know that I’m moving to San Francisco. And second of all, why would you think you know more about how I feel than I do?”

Derek looked at him indignantly. “You just said that you don’t know why you like me. Of course you don’t actually have feelings for me, this is just you projecting onto someone who’s being nice to you.”

“Derek, I can confidently say that you have never been nice to me. Helpful, yes. Saved my life a couple of times, also yes. Nice, not so much.” Derek didn’t respond, so Stiles continued. “And I’m not totally clueless about why I like you, I guess. I mean, you’ve seen yourself, for god’s sake. I’ve thought you were hot since high school.”

Derek smirked a little at that. “I know.”

Stiles huffed angrily. “Of course you know, you have your freaky werewolf horniness detector. But don’t interrupt me.” Stiles took a deep breath. “I like you because even when you’re being incredibly emotionally constipated I can still see all the progress that you’ve made, like you actually smile now and small talk with people. And yeah, you’ve made a lot of mistakes, but you actually put in the work to be better so that you could make things right with Isaac and Erica and Boyd and Scott, even though he kind of tried to kill you a couple times.”

Derek looked like he was about to say something, but Stiles held up a hand to stop him.

“You make me eat when I don’t feel like it and drive me to therapy when I don’t feel like it, but you still never look at me like I’m about to break. And you wear completely ridiculous  _ rainbow crocs _ because it makes the kids you work with smile, and for fuck’s sake how could I not fall for you after that?”

Derek frowned at him like he hadn’t just totally bared his soul. “Are you done now?” Stiles motioned for him to go ahead and sat back on the couch cushions. “None of that changes the fact that we probably shouldn’t be in a relationship.”

Stiles felt dizzy from all the circles they were talking in. “Okay, maybe you’re right. Maybe I’m too fucked up right now–”

“I didn’t mean it like that!” Derek slid down the couch so that he was within arms length of Stiles. “You are not fucked up, Stiles. You’re grieving. And I’m...” he sighed. “I’m not well equipped for relationships.”

Stiles instinctively grabbed one of Derek’s hands in his and tried not to feel too satisfied when he didn’t immediately pull away. “You might be right, okay? This might be a horrible idea. But can’t we at least try to figure it out? Because I don’t think I can just leave things like this.”

Derek looked down at their intertwined hands for a long moment. 

“Okay. Yes. We can figure it out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chocolate Chip Pancakes (recipe adapted from food.com)
> 
> Ingredients:  
> 1 ¼ c flour  
> 1 tbsp sugar  
> ¼ tsp cinnamon  
> 1 tbsp baking powder  
> ¼ tsp salt  
> 2 eggs  
> 1 c milk  
> 4 tbsp melted butter  
> ¾ tsp vanilla  
> ⅓ c chocolate chips
> 
> Instructions:  
> Preheat a griddle or skillet on the stove.  
> Combine flour, sugar, cinnamon, baking powder and salt in a large bowl.  
> Mix together wet ingredients and beat into dry mixture until smooth.  
> Fold in chocolate chips.  
> Pour or spoon batter into the pan in desired quantity.  
> Flip when top just begins to bubble, then cook a minute more.


End file.
